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Oh my. | [WP] Chris Hansen steps down and names Arnold Schwarzeneggar as his successor on To Catch a Predator. Arnold misunderstands the type of Predator he's hunting. | Paul was delighted to have been selected by the network to assist Mr Schwarzenegger during his transition into the new role. When he had first heard the news he was a little ashamed to admit it, but he had peed himself a little. No matter; this was Arnie. He had once accused Satan of being a choir boy. And now here he was, finally. Through just one door. Inches away. A childhood dream about to be fulfilled for a man who had once idolized him as an absolute titan of the silver screen. Arnie had been the only person in the world capable of accurately firing a heavy duty machine gun with just one hand, and Paul would never forget it.
A deep breath. And then a knock.
"Enter" came the unmistakably thick Austrian growl. Here goes nothing...
"Hello, Mr Schwarzenegger sir, I have been sent by the network studio to personally assist you with anything you might require."
Arnold was bending over a workbench of some kind, wearing full safety visor and holding what looked to be a crude type of blowtorch. He barely looked up before answering.
"This is good. I will start with an Uzi. Nine millimetre."
"Sir?"
"Just for close quarter combat. For ranged encounters I will need two plasma cannons with burst fire capability, some tomahawks, at least twenty ninja stars and an elephant gun. It is time for us to hunt the big game"
tbc...
| This is one of those early morning posts I read before coffee sets in, think it's a post for a news sub, shrug, take another sip of coffee, and scroll down...... |
Oh my. | [WP] Chris Hansen steps down and names Arnold Schwarzeneggar as his successor on To Catch a Predator. Arnold misunderstands the type of Predator he's hunting. | --I'm stoned and sleep deprived so bear with me here. wrote this in about 15 minutes without really planning it out lol--
(i suggest reading it like the narrator from Sin City)
The media coverage was surreal. His body count was climbing and I sat there, jaw to the ground, knowing damn well that it was my fault. How could I be so stupid? I kept going over the details in my head, trying to piece together where we went wrong. It had all happened so fast and felt like a blur.
My last day on set was like any ordinary day. Pose like a 13 year old in a chatroom here. Lock up some sad lonely soul there. It's like throwing candy into a circle of hungry children, really. If you want to know the truth, the fact that anyone still uses chatrooms had always been the most astounding thing to me; potential sex crimes with children aside, of course. People ask me how I did it, but I guess you become numb to it eventually. It wasn't until we wrapped up that long final day of catching kid diddlers, that it hit me.
I remember feeling both incredibly relieved that I didn't have to check into this macabre line of duty anymore, and saddened at the same time. The thought that I, Chris Hansen from Dateline NBC, would no longer be baiting heinous sex criminals into their fates troubled me deeply. I tried to calm my nerves with stale cookies and lemonade but I knew it was time to pass the torch. Louis Conradt still haunted me in my sleep and I needed to move on.
The weekend before, some Dateline/NBC studio heads, my crew and myself went on a drunken bender as sort of a farewell. With the line of work I did, being celebrated is to be expected; I couldn't blame them. We drank into the early hours, sharing old relationship stories and tossing around drunken pitch ideas for new shows. That's when I made the biggest mistake of my life. It was nearing 2am and I was in a near blackout state. The rest of the morning got fuzzy.
I woke up distraught next to a woman I didn't know, covered in vomit and still wearing the rubber. My head was pounding. I tried to patch together what had happened, but the only thing I could remember was a name. Arnold Schwarzenegger. I thought nothing of it and coasted into my final week, smelling like sex and fighting back the urge to puke.
My boss greeted me at the door of the house we were using in suburban Petaluma. She had generally only observed from behind the ratings, and today she was unusually chipper. We exchanged "Good Mornings" and then she unknowingly dropped the news on me like a sack of bricks. It didn't click at first when she had told me that the execs at NBC loved my new idea. I gazed at her blankly and then it all came rushing back to me. Arnold Schwarzenegger.
I had always been his biggest fan and owned every copy of every movie he's been in. Even the shitty ones. Hercules In New York, The Villain, Junior; you name it, I have it. So it may come as no surprise that in the midst of my belligerent stupor, I pitched the idea that it would be, "a great spin on the name "To Catch A Predator" if we got the guy who killed Predator in the greatest movie of all time: Predator, to catch real predators.". . . My slurred words echoed and my headache developed into a migraine. I never thought the notion of something so ridiculous would be taken remotely serious, but apparently the execs "loved it". They were streamlining the idea and would have Mr. Schwarzenegger saving the streets from real life Predators in no time. Or so they thought. . .
The blood curdling screams and explosions from the news cast brought me to. I could only see a glimpse of his pixelated face through the smoke. There he was, the monster that I had created. He was holding an M16 Assault Rifle and screaming, "GET TO THE CHOPPA" while frantic civilians whizzed by. Entire city blocks were being destroyed by the second. It would have been an awe inspiring moment, had I not unleashed this beast onto the unsuspecting public. Who knew that after spending so many decades in the United States, there would still be a language barrier issue resulting in confusion over the name "To Catch A Predator"?. . .
I had one more job to do. . .
(Stay tuned for Chris Hansen From Dateline NBC Vs. Arnold Schwarzenegger Vol 1. Issue #2.) | This is one of those early morning posts I read before coffee sets in, think it's a post for a news sub, shrug, take another sip of coffee, and scroll down...... |
Oh my. | [WP] Chris Hansen steps down and names Arnold Schwarzeneggar as his successor on To Catch a Predator. Arnold misunderstands the type of Predator he's hunting. | [The light from monitors inside the makeshift production room glowed from the dark shadowy corner of an empty house. Thunder and wind howled and boomed outside the house as a girl sitting at one of the workstations watched her screen intensely.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-eDAoheZrY8)
"We're not getting any hits, Arnold." the girl exclaimed frustrated. "They're all too afraid to come out because of this damn storm."
"Dun worry, Lori. He will answer deh call." Arnold Schwarzenegger assured as he watched the front door with the same intensity.
"Maybe we should just call it a night. I know the guys would like to try and get home before the storm really hits." Lori continued.
"And ruin our only chance to trap it!?" Arnold yelled.
"Trap 'it'?" Lori asked, but chalking it up to a grammatical error, she continued, "I've tried everything, I can't get a single predator to come out."
"I putd out the bait hours ago. He'w be here any minute now." Arnold spoke softly.
"I'm sorry, what? Did you use my computer to lure someone in?" Lori inquired, irritated by the thought of an actor thinking he could do her job.
Crazy eyed, Arnold scolded Lori, "Oh when are you eggheads gonna get it through ya skulls? Doe's machines won't get him, yew gotta use a beacon like dis one which fell from his ship!" With that, Arnold revealed his bait as an alien artifact covered in mysterious writing and buttons. It glowed green and put Lori into a state of awe.
"Where... Where did you get that?" Lori asked concerned.
"Deh jungle." Arnold explained as he continued to fiddle with the device, changing the tone of it's color each time he pressed a new button.
As Lori backed away slowly, a young man in his early 20's ran into the room still laughing from something he and the other members had gotten into in the back. "You guys gotta see this, the model house actually has a _bidet_!" His attention was quickly drawn to the glowing device Arnold was tapping away on. "Say, what's that?"
"I think he's lost his mind, Duncan!" Lori pleaded.
"Quiet, both of you!" Arnold commanded.
"But I-" Lori continued.
"I SAID QUIET!" Arnold commanded again as he put his hand over Lori's mouth. "You hear dat? He's here!"
"Who's here?" Duncan whispered.
As the three cowered in the corner listening for sounds, thuds could be heard on the roof of the house followed by a loud noise just outside the kitchen window. Clicking sounds and heavy alien breathing sent chills down the spines of the crew but gave Arnold a smile.
"Go, tell the od'thers." Arnold softly instructed. "Do it! Do it now!"
Lori and Duncan visibly gripped by fear slowly crawled out of the room. The quiet empty setting suddenly burst into commotion as the kitchen wall was completely blown out and a shadowy large figure stepped through the rubble and smoke.
"GOOOO!" Arnold now screamed as he pulled an M16 from the rear of the couch. "GET TO DA CAMERAS!"
As Lori and Duncan ran down the hallway to the garage where the rest of the crew had been spending their time, Lori screamed incoherently through the sound of gunfire and blasts.
"Harry! Harry get the camera!" Duncan yelled.
"What the hell's goin on out there? Are you people nuts, we're renting this house you know." A stocky bald man with a Brooklyn accent yelled as Lori collapsed into his arms. "Hey what is wrong!?"
Duncan began gathering equipment while explaining the situation. "He brought the predator and now we've got something that might just be the best episode we have ever done."
"Wait a minute, he got one guy from the internet to come and they're making all that racket in there? Oh jeez we're gonna get sued!" Harry worried.
"Not a predator, _the_ predator!" Duncan corrected as a loud scream from Arnold could be heard from the living room, now in hand-to-hand combat.
Duncan and Harry gathered their equipment while the rest of the crew, including Lori, ran out through the garage door, leaving behind another young man who stood still in absolute fear. Duncan tried to utilize him and began to hand him a camera, but realized three red lights now rested on the young man's forehead.
"Cohagen!" Duncan screamed as his companion's head exploded from a laser blast.
"Come on! Come on Duncan, he's dead!" Harry yelled as he pulled Duncan towards the commotion with their cameras.
The two rushed towards the living room to find Arnold being held by his neck and thrown into the hallway.
"What ah you waiding for? Film dis!" Arnold screamed as he got up and ran right back at the predator. The two locked again and Arnold was again thrown, this time into the kitchen where the predator had initially entered. The predator was now free to reclaim his safety beacon. Growling and clicking, he analyzed the beacon and pressed a few buttons before it's glow vanished. The predator stood for a moment analyzing the device when suddenly gun fire from the kitchen blasted the device from his hands and splattered neon blood against the wall. The alien screamed in pain so loud that Duncan and Harry both grabbed their ears.
"Not today." Arnold spoke calmly as he unloaded all his M16 had to offer, sending the predator out into the street where the commotion had drawn neighbors out of their homes.
"He's getting away!" Arnold screamed as he chased after him.
The two cameramen followed soon after, exiting through the giant hole left in the side of the rented house. Just outside in the cul de sac a small ship de-cloaked into view. A stairway entrance was expanded with mist pouring out from the mysterious innards of the ship.
"Arnold no! We can't follow him in there!" Duncan pleaded.
"If we don't, we don't have an episode, now come ahn!" Arnold shouted as the three ran down the street. As they reached the ship, the entrance platform had already begun to withdraw and the ship began to leave. All three men jumped into the ship on time and the neighborhood was left to watch as they ascended into the dark storm above.
Now on board, the three men found themselves in an eerily silent misty room with the predator nowhere in sight. Arnold investigated closer to find neon green drops forming a trail to a corridor in front of them.
"Follow me." Arnold spoke as the two men continued to film.
The three men moved slowly down a hall, passing by rooms each meant for some bizarre alien function until reaching what could only be described as a human child's play room. Inside slept a young teenage girl, chained to the wall behind her.
"Holy shit, the predator is an actual predator." Duncan said while putting his camera down to help.
"Duncan, save deh gurl. Harwwy, you on me ok?" Arnold instructed.
"You got it." Harry acknowledged, never once turning his camera off.
As the two continued down the misty hallway, it opened up into a navigation room with the predator standing behind a console controlling the ship.
"Yew ah one ugly mudda fucka" Arnold spoke as he aimed through the sites of his gun, startling the beastly alien hunter which knew it had no way out. "Why dun you have a seat right over dere." Arnold continued.
As the predator sat down on a bench against the wall, Duncan and a girl ran into the room. The girl was overjoyed to be rescued, and spat into the predator's face.
Arnold turned to Harry and smiled. "I tink we got ah episode." he said.
"I think we do!" Harry giggled in response as all four human beings on board the alien ship cheered.
Months later the episode aired with it's new host. Arnold spoke into the camera, wrapping up the episode with an introduction to a slight recap, "And now, how about a followup to dat predator we caught? We found him during his court hearing later this fall." A clip of the predator standing before a judge next to his lawyer played for the audience.
"And now Mr. - Predator? Is it?" spoke the judge. "It says here you kidnapped a 12 year old girl on your spaceship? How do you plead."
The predator leaned over to his lawyer and whispered into his ear. Speaking on the predators behalf, the lawyer addressed the judge, "Your honor we plead not-guilty on account of a lack of proper warrant for my client's ship. Any and all evidence sought here throughout shall not be admissible into a court of law. We wish to file a motion to have this case thrown out."
"Your client was caught breaking federal law during a pursuit for a non-related crime. Your motion is denied."
As the predator heard this he looked straight up and screamed at the top of his lungs.
"You do that again and I'll hold you in contempt, mister." the judge reprimanded, shocking the predator who then made the same scream only far softer and under his breath."
"Next!" the judge screamed as the predator was led off in his orange jumpsuit and chains.
Cutting back to Arnold, the episode ended with a final note, "So dere you have it, another predator off the streets and out of the cosmos. This has been a great adventcha, tank you watching. Goodnight!" | This is one of those early morning posts I read before coffee sets in, think it's a post for a news sub, shrug, take another sip of coffee, and scroll down...... |
Oh my. | [WP] Chris Hansen steps down and names Arnold Schwarzeneggar as his successor on To Catch a Predator. Arnold misunderstands the type of Predator he's hunting. | Paul was delighted to have been selected by the network to assist Mr Schwarzenegger during his transition into the new role. When he had first heard the news he was a little ashamed to admit it, but he had peed himself a little. No matter; this was Arnie. He had once accused Satan of being a choir boy. And now here he was, finally. Through just one door. Inches away. A childhood dream about to be fulfilled for a man who had once idolized him as an absolute titan of the silver screen. Arnie had been the only person in the world capable of accurately firing a heavy duty machine gun with just one hand, and Paul would never forget it.
A deep breath. And then a knock.
"Enter" came the unmistakably thick Austrian growl. Here goes nothing...
"Hello, Mr Schwarzenegger sir, I have been sent by the network studio to personally assist you with anything you might require."
Arnold was bending over a workbench of some kind, wearing full safety visor and holding what looked to be a crude type of blowtorch. He barely looked up before answering.
"This is good. I will start with an Uzi. Nine millimetre."
"Sir?"
"Just for close quarter combat. For ranged encounters I will need two plasma cannons with burst fire capability, some tomahawks, at least twenty ninja stars and an elephant gun. It is time for us to hunt the big game"
tbc...
| The moonlight glimmered off of the trees. The air was dank and humid, and sat heavily in the moon gilded jungle night. The bushes suddenly began to give way and eventually birthed a shape...with no shape. Branches cracked and snapped with no visible force applied. A shimmer of motion and the hunter was on the move. Heavy footsteps impressed into the ground marked his progress. The hulking figure suddenly turned, and cocked his head. Hues of red, blue, orange, and yellow flicked between branches. He could barely make out a form sitting within it, but it was there. The footsteps ended, and the branches of a nearby tree began to creak softly.
The man sat, sipping coffee from a tin cup, and stared into the fire. His posture was hunched, almost tired. The hunter moved over his unsuspecting prey. The hunter dropped down in absolute silence and stepped forward to claim his prize...then stopped short.
"Vat are you Vaiting for?"
The hunter jumped back.
"Go ahead, do it now."
A well built man walked out of the shadows.
"Vat exactly did you come here for tonight?"
The hunter backed up, looking unsure.
The large man gestured to a chair, "stick around."
Dumbfounded, the hunter did.
The man sat and steepled his fingers.
"So, vat vere your intentions for the man at zat campfire? vere you meeting this man here to kill and skin him?"
The predator shook its head violently.
"Zen vat's with ze shoulder cannon?"
The predator was still.
|
Oh my. | [WP] Chris Hansen steps down and names Arnold Schwarzeneggar as his successor on To Catch a Predator. Arnold misunderstands the type of Predator he's hunting. | --I'm stoned and sleep deprived so bear with me here. wrote this in about 15 minutes without really planning it out lol--
(i suggest reading it like the narrator from Sin City)
The media coverage was surreal. His body count was climbing and I sat there, jaw to the ground, knowing damn well that it was my fault. How could I be so stupid? I kept going over the details in my head, trying to piece together where we went wrong. It had all happened so fast and felt like a blur.
My last day on set was like any ordinary day. Pose like a 13 year old in a chatroom here. Lock up some sad lonely soul there. It's like throwing candy into a circle of hungry children, really. If you want to know the truth, the fact that anyone still uses chatrooms had always been the most astounding thing to me; potential sex crimes with children aside, of course. People ask me how I did it, but I guess you become numb to it eventually. It wasn't until we wrapped up that long final day of catching kid diddlers, that it hit me.
I remember feeling both incredibly relieved that I didn't have to check into this macabre line of duty anymore, and saddened at the same time. The thought that I, Chris Hansen from Dateline NBC, would no longer be baiting heinous sex criminals into their fates troubled me deeply. I tried to calm my nerves with stale cookies and lemonade but I knew it was time to pass the torch. Louis Conradt still haunted me in my sleep and I needed to move on.
The weekend before, some Dateline/NBC studio heads, my crew and myself went on a drunken bender as sort of a farewell. With the line of work I did, being celebrated is to be expected; I couldn't blame them. We drank into the early hours, sharing old relationship stories and tossing around drunken pitch ideas for new shows. That's when I made the biggest mistake of my life. It was nearing 2am and I was in a near blackout state. The rest of the morning got fuzzy.
I woke up distraught next to a woman I didn't know, covered in vomit and still wearing the rubber. My head was pounding. I tried to patch together what had happened, but the only thing I could remember was a name. Arnold Schwarzenegger. I thought nothing of it and coasted into my final week, smelling like sex and fighting back the urge to puke.
My boss greeted me at the door of the house we were using in suburban Petaluma. She had generally only observed from behind the ratings, and today she was unusually chipper. We exchanged "Good Mornings" and then she unknowingly dropped the news on me like a sack of bricks. It didn't click at first when she had told me that the execs at NBC loved my new idea. I gazed at her blankly and then it all came rushing back to me. Arnold Schwarzenegger.
I had always been his biggest fan and owned every copy of every movie he's been in. Even the shitty ones. Hercules In New York, The Villain, Junior; you name it, I have it. So it may come as no surprise that in the midst of my belligerent stupor, I pitched the idea that it would be, "a great spin on the name "To Catch A Predator" if we got the guy who killed Predator in the greatest movie of all time: Predator, to catch real predators.". . . My slurred words echoed and my headache developed into a migraine. I never thought the notion of something so ridiculous would be taken remotely serious, but apparently the execs "loved it". They were streamlining the idea and would have Mr. Schwarzenegger saving the streets from real life Predators in no time. Or so they thought. . .
The blood curdling screams and explosions from the news cast brought me to. I could only see a glimpse of his pixelated face through the smoke. There he was, the monster that I had created. He was holding an M16 Assault Rifle and screaming, "GET TO THE CHOPPA" while frantic civilians whizzed by. Entire city blocks were being destroyed by the second. It would have been an awe inspiring moment, had I not unleashed this beast onto the unsuspecting public. Who knew that after spending so many decades in the United States, there would still be a language barrier issue resulting in confusion over the name "To Catch A Predator"?. . .
I had one more job to do. . .
(Stay tuned for Chris Hansen From Dateline NBC Vs. Arnold Schwarzenegger Vol 1. Issue #2.) | The moonlight glimmered off of the trees. The air was dank and humid, and sat heavily in the moon gilded jungle night. The bushes suddenly began to give way and eventually birthed a shape...with no shape. Branches cracked and snapped with no visible force applied. A shimmer of motion and the hunter was on the move. Heavy footsteps impressed into the ground marked his progress. The hulking figure suddenly turned, and cocked his head. Hues of red, blue, orange, and yellow flicked between branches. He could barely make out a form sitting within it, but it was there. The footsteps ended, and the branches of a nearby tree began to creak softly.
The man sat, sipping coffee from a tin cup, and stared into the fire. His posture was hunched, almost tired. The hunter moved over his unsuspecting prey. The hunter dropped down in absolute silence and stepped forward to claim his prize...then stopped short.
"Vat are you Vaiting for?"
The hunter jumped back.
"Go ahead, do it now."
A well built man walked out of the shadows.
"Vat exactly did you come here for tonight?"
The hunter backed up, looking unsure.
The large man gestured to a chair, "stick around."
Dumbfounded, the hunter did.
The man sat and steepled his fingers.
"So, vat vere your intentions for the man at zat campfire? vere you meeting this man here to kill and skin him?"
The predator shook its head violently.
"Zen vat's with ze shoulder cannon?"
The predator was still.
|
Oh my. | [WP] Chris Hansen steps down and names Arnold Schwarzeneggar as his successor on To Catch a Predator. Arnold misunderstands the type of Predator he's hunting. | [The light from monitors inside the makeshift production room glowed from the dark shadowy corner of an empty house. Thunder and wind howled and boomed outside the house as a girl sitting at one of the workstations watched her screen intensely.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-eDAoheZrY8)
"We're not getting any hits, Arnold." the girl exclaimed frustrated. "They're all too afraid to come out because of this damn storm."
"Dun worry, Lori. He will answer deh call." Arnold Schwarzenegger assured as he watched the front door with the same intensity.
"Maybe we should just call it a night. I know the guys would like to try and get home before the storm really hits." Lori continued.
"And ruin our only chance to trap it!?" Arnold yelled.
"Trap 'it'?" Lori asked, but chalking it up to a grammatical error, she continued, "I've tried everything, I can't get a single predator to come out."
"I putd out the bait hours ago. He'w be here any minute now." Arnold spoke softly.
"I'm sorry, what? Did you use my computer to lure someone in?" Lori inquired, irritated by the thought of an actor thinking he could do her job.
Crazy eyed, Arnold scolded Lori, "Oh when are you eggheads gonna get it through ya skulls? Doe's machines won't get him, yew gotta use a beacon like dis one which fell from his ship!" With that, Arnold revealed his bait as an alien artifact covered in mysterious writing and buttons. It glowed green and put Lori into a state of awe.
"Where... Where did you get that?" Lori asked concerned.
"Deh jungle." Arnold explained as he continued to fiddle with the device, changing the tone of it's color each time he pressed a new button.
As Lori backed away slowly, a young man in his early 20's ran into the room still laughing from something he and the other members had gotten into in the back. "You guys gotta see this, the model house actually has a _bidet_!" His attention was quickly drawn to the glowing device Arnold was tapping away on. "Say, what's that?"
"I think he's lost his mind, Duncan!" Lori pleaded.
"Quiet, both of you!" Arnold commanded.
"But I-" Lori continued.
"I SAID QUIET!" Arnold commanded again as he put his hand over Lori's mouth. "You hear dat? He's here!"
"Who's here?" Duncan whispered.
As the three cowered in the corner listening for sounds, thuds could be heard on the roof of the house followed by a loud noise just outside the kitchen window. Clicking sounds and heavy alien breathing sent chills down the spines of the crew but gave Arnold a smile.
"Go, tell the od'thers." Arnold softly instructed. "Do it! Do it now!"
Lori and Duncan visibly gripped by fear slowly crawled out of the room. The quiet empty setting suddenly burst into commotion as the kitchen wall was completely blown out and a shadowy large figure stepped through the rubble and smoke.
"GOOOO!" Arnold now screamed as he pulled an M16 from the rear of the couch. "GET TO DA CAMERAS!"
As Lori and Duncan ran down the hallway to the garage where the rest of the crew had been spending their time, Lori screamed incoherently through the sound of gunfire and blasts.
"Harry! Harry get the camera!" Duncan yelled.
"What the hell's goin on out there? Are you people nuts, we're renting this house you know." A stocky bald man with a Brooklyn accent yelled as Lori collapsed into his arms. "Hey what is wrong!?"
Duncan began gathering equipment while explaining the situation. "He brought the predator and now we've got something that might just be the best episode we have ever done."
"Wait a minute, he got one guy from the internet to come and they're making all that racket in there? Oh jeez we're gonna get sued!" Harry worried.
"Not a predator, _the_ predator!" Duncan corrected as a loud scream from Arnold could be heard from the living room, now in hand-to-hand combat.
Duncan and Harry gathered their equipment while the rest of the crew, including Lori, ran out through the garage door, leaving behind another young man who stood still in absolute fear. Duncan tried to utilize him and began to hand him a camera, but realized three red lights now rested on the young man's forehead.
"Cohagen!" Duncan screamed as his companion's head exploded from a laser blast.
"Come on! Come on Duncan, he's dead!" Harry yelled as he pulled Duncan towards the commotion with their cameras.
The two rushed towards the living room to find Arnold being held by his neck and thrown into the hallway.
"What ah you waiding for? Film dis!" Arnold screamed as he got up and ran right back at the predator. The two locked again and Arnold was again thrown, this time into the kitchen where the predator had initially entered. The predator was now free to reclaim his safety beacon. Growling and clicking, he analyzed the beacon and pressed a few buttons before it's glow vanished. The predator stood for a moment analyzing the device when suddenly gun fire from the kitchen blasted the device from his hands and splattered neon blood against the wall. The alien screamed in pain so loud that Duncan and Harry both grabbed their ears.
"Not today." Arnold spoke calmly as he unloaded all his M16 had to offer, sending the predator out into the street where the commotion had drawn neighbors out of their homes.
"He's getting away!" Arnold screamed as he chased after him.
The two cameramen followed soon after, exiting through the giant hole left in the side of the rented house. Just outside in the cul de sac a small ship de-cloaked into view. A stairway entrance was expanded with mist pouring out from the mysterious innards of the ship.
"Arnold no! We can't follow him in there!" Duncan pleaded.
"If we don't, we don't have an episode, now come ahn!" Arnold shouted as the three ran down the street. As they reached the ship, the entrance platform had already begun to withdraw and the ship began to leave. All three men jumped into the ship on time and the neighborhood was left to watch as they ascended into the dark storm above.
Now on board, the three men found themselves in an eerily silent misty room with the predator nowhere in sight. Arnold investigated closer to find neon green drops forming a trail to a corridor in front of them.
"Follow me." Arnold spoke as the two men continued to film.
The three men moved slowly down a hall, passing by rooms each meant for some bizarre alien function until reaching what could only be described as a human child's play room. Inside slept a young teenage girl, chained to the wall behind her.
"Holy shit, the predator is an actual predator." Duncan said while putting his camera down to help.
"Duncan, save deh gurl. Harwwy, you on me ok?" Arnold instructed.
"You got it." Harry acknowledged, never once turning his camera off.
As the two continued down the misty hallway, it opened up into a navigation room with the predator standing behind a console controlling the ship.
"Yew ah one ugly mudda fucka" Arnold spoke as he aimed through the sites of his gun, startling the beastly alien hunter which knew it had no way out. "Why dun you have a seat right over dere." Arnold continued.
As the predator sat down on a bench against the wall, Duncan and a girl ran into the room. The girl was overjoyed to be rescued, and spat into the predator's face.
Arnold turned to Harry and smiled. "I tink we got ah episode." he said.
"I think we do!" Harry giggled in response as all four human beings on board the alien ship cheered.
Months later the episode aired with it's new host. Arnold spoke into the camera, wrapping up the episode with an introduction to a slight recap, "And now, how about a followup to dat predator we caught? We found him during his court hearing later this fall." A clip of the predator standing before a judge next to his lawyer played for the audience.
"And now Mr. - Predator? Is it?" spoke the judge. "It says here you kidnapped a 12 year old girl on your spaceship? How do you plead."
The predator leaned over to his lawyer and whispered into his ear. Speaking on the predators behalf, the lawyer addressed the judge, "Your honor we plead not-guilty on account of a lack of proper warrant for my client's ship. Any and all evidence sought here throughout shall not be admissible into a court of law. We wish to file a motion to have this case thrown out."
"Your client was caught breaking federal law during a pursuit for a non-related crime. Your motion is denied."
As the predator heard this he looked straight up and screamed at the top of his lungs.
"You do that again and I'll hold you in contempt, mister." the judge reprimanded, shocking the predator who then made the same scream only far softer and under his breath."
"Next!" the judge screamed as the predator was led off in his orange jumpsuit and chains.
Cutting back to Arnold, the episode ended with a final note, "So dere you have it, another predator off the streets and out of the cosmos. This has been a great adventcha, tank you watching. Goodnight!" | "Get to da Choppa" He yells as he's killing the predator. He believes they have gained the power of illusion to look and sound human.
10 - years later
"Whhy did you do it Arnie? Why!!"
"I did it to protect earth!"
"Good, because thats why we need you now! We have a mother ship of aliens coming our way! We need you to stop it like you did the predator"
-Fin |
Oh my. | [WP] Chris Hansen steps down and names Arnold Schwarzeneggar as his successor on To Catch a Predator. Arnold misunderstands the type of Predator he's hunting. | I had been one of those years. I'd hit a dry spell. I tried the bar scene, but twelve months of looking netted me a big fat zero in the dating department. I only had three co-workers that were girls and they were big fat zeroes as well. I still hit them up though. They shot me down like an un-manned drone in Fallujah. There just wasn't a lot of women in my life to socialize with. There was Krystal that worked there register at the Kum and Go. There was Brooke who worked the register at the hardware store. And there was Mara who served me pancakes at the diner. That meant there was no one in my life, so I did what every one seems to do. I went online, and my luck was just as bad. Well, it was bad right up until I met Brandi with an I.
Oddly enough, I wasn't interested in her at first. She was fifteen. I was forty-one. She claimed she worked as a personal shopper. I knew it was wrong, but flirting with her was like being in high school again. It took about a week chatting back and forth to convince her to let me come over. I brought beer.
Walking up her drive way that night was one of the saddest walks of my life. I kept asking myself, was I really going to do this? Was I really going to have sex with a fifteen year old? It was the saddest moment of my life stepping on to sidewalk with the walk lights illuminating the path ahead. The tall shrubs and bushes to each side of the path was like a miniature jungle.
I tried to imagine what I would say to her father if he unexpectedly stepped out the foliage. I'd come up with several explanations for why I was there. The girl claimed to be a personal shopper. I could use that as an excuse. I'd just claim that I was in the market for a personal shopper and that I was responding to her ad on line. Oddly enough, having that lie on hand really calmed me down. I wasn't breaking any laws just showing up. Hell, she'd probably take one look at me and change her mind anyway.
Up ahead, the front door opened. I leapt off the walk in panic, hiding the beer among the bushes. When I poked my head out again to see who it was, I saw a girl of about fifteen with blonde hair and a bad makeup job checking her watch and biting her lip nervously. This brought a smile to my face and started to stepped out onto the walk again. That's when the biggest hand I'd ever seen came snaking out of the darkness and clamped itself across my mouth. I python like arm reeled me back into the grass.
"Are you crazy." An man with a heavy Austrian accent asked, his lips tickling my ear. I knew that accent. I knew that voice.
"Arnold?" I asked, petrified at being caught in the act and star struck all at the same time.
"Quiet. Do you want it to hear you?" He asked. "It's out there, waiting." He thrust his chiseled chin toward the darkened bushes across the walk. I fumbled with my keys, hoping to make a break for it. "What are you doin' out here all alone?"
"Personal . . . uh . . ." I gestured toward the porch and the girl. "Personal shopper." I accidently hit the button on my daub that locked my car. The car chirped three times and locked, flashing the lights once. That was all Arnold needed to hear. He shoved me toward the front porch and the girl.
"Get to the shoppa!" He cried, bursting out of the bushes. It staggered to the house in confusion while he fired the grenade launcher he was holding at my Mazada. "Go!" He cried again, plunging back into the shrubs. | "Get to da Choppa" He yells as he's killing the predator. He believes they have gained the power of illusion to look and sound human.
10 - years later
"Whhy did you do it Arnie? Why!!"
"I did it to protect earth!"
"Good, because thats why we need you now! We have a mother ship of aliens coming our way! We need you to stop it like you did the predator"
-Fin |
Oh my. | [WP] Chris Hansen steps down and names Arnold Schwarzeneggar as his successor on To Catch a Predator. Arnold misunderstands the type of Predator he's hunting. | [The light from monitors inside the makeshift production room glowed from the dark shadowy corner of an empty house. Thunder and wind howled and boomed outside the house as a girl sitting at one of the workstations watched her screen intensely.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-eDAoheZrY8)
"We're not getting any hits, Arnold." the girl exclaimed frustrated. "They're all too afraid to come out because of this damn storm."
"Dun worry, Lori. He will answer deh call." Arnold Schwarzenegger assured as he watched the front door with the same intensity.
"Maybe we should just call it a night. I know the guys would like to try and get home before the storm really hits." Lori continued.
"And ruin our only chance to trap it!?" Arnold yelled.
"Trap 'it'?" Lori asked, but chalking it up to a grammatical error, she continued, "I've tried everything, I can't get a single predator to come out."
"I putd out the bait hours ago. He'w be here any minute now." Arnold spoke softly.
"I'm sorry, what? Did you use my computer to lure someone in?" Lori inquired, irritated by the thought of an actor thinking he could do her job.
Crazy eyed, Arnold scolded Lori, "Oh when are you eggheads gonna get it through ya skulls? Doe's machines won't get him, yew gotta use a beacon like dis one which fell from his ship!" With that, Arnold revealed his bait as an alien artifact covered in mysterious writing and buttons. It glowed green and put Lori into a state of awe.
"Where... Where did you get that?" Lori asked concerned.
"Deh jungle." Arnold explained as he continued to fiddle with the device, changing the tone of it's color each time he pressed a new button.
As Lori backed away slowly, a young man in his early 20's ran into the room still laughing from something he and the other members had gotten into in the back. "You guys gotta see this, the model house actually has a _bidet_!" His attention was quickly drawn to the glowing device Arnold was tapping away on. "Say, what's that?"
"I think he's lost his mind, Duncan!" Lori pleaded.
"Quiet, both of you!" Arnold commanded.
"But I-" Lori continued.
"I SAID QUIET!" Arnold commanded again as he put his hand over Lori's mouth. "You hear dat? He's here!"
"Who's here?" Duncan whispered.
As the three cowered in the corner listening for sounds, thuds could be heard on the roof of the house followed by a loud noise just outside the kitchen window. Clicking sounds and heavy alien breathing sent chills down the spines of the crew but gave Arnold a smile.
"Go, tell the od'thers." Arnold softly instructed. "Do it! Do it now!"
Lori and Duncan visibly gripped by fear slowly crawled out of the room. The quiet empty setting suddenly burst into commotion as the kitchen wall was completely blown out and a shadowy large figure stepped through the rubble and smoke.
"GOOOO!" Arnold now screamed as he pulled an M16 from the rear of the couch. "GET TO DA CAMERAS!"
As Lori and Duncan ran down the hallway to the garage where the rest of the crew had been spending their time, Lori screamed incoherently through the sound of gunfire and blasts.
"Harry! Harry get the camera!" Duncan yelled.
"What the hell's goin on out there? Are you people nuts, we're renting this house you know." A stocky bald man with a Brooklyn accent yelled as Lori collapsed into his arms. "Hey what is wrong!?"
Duncan began gathering equipment while explaining the situation. "He brought the predator and now we've got something that might just be the best episode we have ever done."
"Wait a minute, he got one guy from the internet to come and they're making all that racket in there? Oh jeez we're gonna get sued!" Harry worried.
"Not a predator, _the_ predator!" Duncan corrected as a loud scream from Arnold could be heard from the living room, now in hand-to-hand combat.
Duncan and Harry gathered their equipment while the rest of the crew, including Lori, ran out through the garage door, leaving behind another young man who stood still in absolute fear. Duncan tried to utilize him and began to hand him a camera, but realized three red lights now rested on the young man's forehead.
"Cohagen!" Duncan screamed as his companion's head exploded from a laser blast.
"Come on! Come on Duncan, he's dead!" Harry yelled as he pulled Duncan towards the commotion with their cameras.
The two rushed towards the living room to find Arnold being held by his neck and thrown into the hallway.
"What ah you waiding for? Film dis!" Arnold screamed as he got up and ran right back at the predator. The two locked again and Arnold was again thrown, this time into the kitchen where the predator had initially entered. The predator was now free to reclaim his safety beacon. Growling and clicking, he analyzed the beacon and pressed a few buttons before it's glow vanished. The predator stood for a moment analyzing the device when suddenly gun fire from the kitchen blasted the device from his hands and splattered neon blood against the wall. The alien screamed in pain so loud that Duncan and Harry both grabbed their ears.
"Not today." Arnold spoke calmly as he unloaded all his M16 had to offer, sending the predator out into the street where the commotion had drawn neighbors out of their homes.
"He's getting away!" Arnold screamed as he chased after him.
The two cameramen followed soon after, exiting through the giant hole left in the side of the rented house. Just outside in the cul de sac a small ship de-cloaked into view. A stairway entrance was expanded with mist pouring out from the mysterious innards of the ship.
"Arnold no! We can't follow him in there!" Duncan pleaded.
"If we don't, we don't have an episode, now come ahn!" Arnold shouted as the three ran down the street. As they reached the ship, the entrance platform had already begun to withdraw and the ship began to leave. All three men jumped into the ship on time and the neighborhood was left to watch as they ascended into the dark storm above.
Now on board, the three men found themselves in an eerily silent misty room with the predator nowhere in sight. Arnold investigated closer to find neon green drops forming a trail to a corridor in front of them.
"Follow me." Arnold spoke as the two men continued to film.
The three men moved slowly down a hall, passing by rooms each meant for some bizarre alien function until reaching what could only be described as a human child's play room. Inside slept a young teenage girl, chained to the wall behind her.
"Holy shit, the predator is an actual predator." Duncan said while putting his camera down to help.
"Duncan, save deh gurl. Harwwy, you on me ok?" Arnold instructed.
"You got it." Harry acknowledged, never once turning his camera off.
As the two continued down the misty hallway, it opened up into a navigation room with the predator standing behind a console controlling the ship.
"Yew ah one ugly mudda fucka" Arnold spoke as he aimed through the sites of his gun, startling the beastly alien hunter which knew it had no way out. "Why dun you have a seat right over dere." Arnold continued.
As the predator sat down on a bench against the wall, Duncan and a girl ran into the room. The girl was overjoyed to be rescued, and spat into the predator's face.
Arnold turned to Harry and smiled. "I tink we got ah episode." he said.
"I think we do!" Harry giggled in response as all four human beings on board the alien ship cheered.
Months later the episode aired with it's new host. Arnold spoke into the camera, wrapping up the episode with an introduction to a slight recap, "And now, how about a followup to dat predator we caught? We found him during his court hearing later this fall." A clip of the predator standing before a judge next to his lawyer played for the audience.
"And now Mr. - Predator? Is it?" spoke the judge. "It says here you kidnapped a 12 year old girl on your spaceship? How do you plead."
The predator leaned over to his lawyer and whispered into his ear. Speaking on the predators behalf, the lawyer addressed the judge, "Your honor we plead not-guilty on account of a lack of proper warrant for my client's ship. Any and all evidence sought here throughout shall not be admissible into a court of law. We wish to file a motion to have this case thrown out."
"Your client was caught breaking federal law during a pursuit for a non-related crime. Your motion is denied."
As the predator heard this he looked straight up and screamed at the top of his lungs.
"You do that again and I'll hold you in contempt, mister." the judge reprimanded, shocking the predator who then made the same scream only far softer and under his breath."
"Next!" the judge screamed as the predator was led off in his orange jumpsuit and chains.
Cutting back to Arnold, the episode ended with a final note, "So dere you have it, another predator off the streets and out of the cosmos. This has been a great adventcha, tank you watching. Goodnight!" | In a random suburban kitchen, Arnold is investigating every corner with nigh vision goggles. In the mean time, the cameraman has found the remains of last nights pork chops in the garbage and has a great idea.
An man in his early 40s approaches the house with a box of chocolate dipped strawberries, and a One Direction CD as directed by Looking4DadBEar36. He believes this will be his chance to have sex with the cheerleader that he never slept with in high school, due to his absurdly early onset male pattern baldness already in late stages by that time and the curliest bushy eyebrows that anyone has ever seen. It was gods cruelest joke.
By the time the predator, Phil, has entered the kitchen Arnold is outside searching through trees. No one hears from him again throughout the rest of the adventure. His lust for a second chance at a youthful conquest has consumed him. The camera man is happily chopping vegetables and mumbling something to himself about getting a stew going when Phil starts to look confused. Turning to leave the cameraman looks up, for just a second, and his knife finally found the opening it was looking for and cut through his upper arm. True to character, rather than go limp and dead like most arms, his arm continues to do what it was doing prior to being cut off : filming the show. As the cameraman gives a full bodied yell, Phil begins to freak out and runs over to the cameraman's side, the whole scene expertly captured by his own severed arm. As Phil leans over, yelling that he's sorry and that it's all his fault, and that he'll never do anything like this again emergency services shows up and handcuffs him. As Phil is being led out, the camera zooms in on the man who is obviously Carl Weathers, now seemingly fine (though still only possessing the one arm), he says "And THAT'S why we don't try to have sex with under-aged girls." Another lesson pop? Damn it.
Carl Weathers's severed arm went on to receive an Emmy for best camerawork, while Carl went on to star in a line of infomercials advertising his tried and true method for making stew. No one has seen Arnold in years. |
Oh my. | [WP] Chris Hansen steps down and names Arnold Schwarzeneggar as his successor on To Catch a Predator. Arnold misunderstands the type of Predator he's hunting. | I had been one of those years. I'd hit a dry spell. I tried the bar scene, but twelve months of looking netted me a big fat zero in the dating department. I only had three co-workers that were girls and they were big fat zeroes as well. I still hit them up though. They shot me down like an un-manned drone in Fallujah. There just wasn't a lot of women in my life to socialize with. There was Krystal that worked there register at the Kum and Go. There was Brooke who worked the register at the hardware store. And there was Mara who served me pancakes at the diner. That meant there was no one in my life, so I did what every one seems to do. I went online, and my luck was just as bad. Well, it was bad right up until I met Brandi with an I.
Oddly enough, I wasn't interested in her at first. She was fifteen. I was forty-one. She claimed she worked as a personal shopper. I knew it was wrong, but flirting with her was like being in high school again. It took about a week chatting back and forth to convince her to let me come over. I brought beer.
Walking up her drive way that night was one of the saddest walks of my life. I kept asking myself, was I really going to do this? Was I really going to have sex with a fifteen year old? It was the saddest moment of my life stepping on to sidewalk with the walk lights illuminating the path ahead. The tall shrubs and bushes to each side of the path was like a miniature jungle.
I tried to imagine what I would say to her father if he unexpectedly stepped out the foliage. I'd come up with several explanations for why I was there. The girl claimed to be a personal shopper. I could use that as an excuse. I'd just claim that I was in the market for a personal shopper and that I was responding to her ad on line. Oddly enough, having that lie on hand really calmed me down. I wasn't breaking any laws just showing up. Hell, she'd probably take one look at me and change her mind anyway.
Up ahead, the front door opened. I leapt off the walk in panic, hiding the beer among the bushes. When I poked my head out again to see who it was, I saw a girl of about fifteen with blonde hair and a bad makeup job checking her watch and biting her lip nervously. This brought a smile to my face and started to stepped out onto the walk again. That's when the biggest hand I'd ever seen came snaking out of the darkness and clamped itself across my mouth. I python like arm reeled me back into the grass.
"Are you crazy." An man with a heavy Austrian accent asked, his lips tickling my ear. I knew that accent. I knew that voice.
"Arnold?" I asked, petrified at being caught in the act and star struck all at the same time.
"Quiet. Do you want it to hear you?" He asked. "It's out there, waiting." He thrust his chiseled chin toward the darkened bushes across the walk. I fumbled with my keys, hoping to make a break for it. "What are you doin' out here all alone?"
"Personal . . . uh . . ." I gestured toward the porch and the girl. "Personal shopper." I accidently hit the button on my daub that locked my car. The car chirped three times and locked, flashing the lights once. That was all Arnold needed to hear. He shoved me toward the front porch and the girl.
"Get to the shoppa!" He cried, bursting out of the bushes. It staggered to the house in confusion while he fired the grenade launcher he was holding at my Mazada. "Go!" He cried again, plunging back into the shrubs. | In a random suburban kitchen, Arnold is investigating every corner with nigh vision goggles. In the mean time, the cameraman has found the remains of last nights pork chops in the garbage and has a great idea.
An man in his early 40s approaches the house with a box of chocolate dipped strawberries, and a One Direction CD as directed by Looking4DadBEar36. He believes this will be his chance to have sex with the cheerleader that he never slept with in high school, due to his absurdly early onset male pattern baldness already in late stages by that time and the curliest bushy eyebrows that anyone has ever seen. It was gods cruelest joke.
By the time the predator, Phil, has entered the kitchen Arnold is outside searching through trees. No one hears from him again throughout the rest of the adventure. His lust for a second chance at a youthful conquest has consumed him. The camera man is happily chopping vegetables and mumbling something to himself about getting a stew going when Phil starts to look confused. Turning to leave the cameraman looks up, for just a second, and his knife finally found the opening it was looking for and cut through his upper arm. True to character, rather than go limp and dead like most arms, his arm continues to do what it was doing prior to being cut off : filming the show. As the cameraman gives a full bodied yell, Phil begins to freak out and runs over to the cameraman's side, the whole scene expertly captured by his own severed arm. As Phil leans over, yelling that he's sorry and that it's all his fault, and that he'll never do anything like this again emergency services shows up and handcuffs him. As Phil is being led out, the camera zooms in on the man who is obviously Carl Weathers, now seemingly fine (though still only possessing the one arm), he says "And THAT'S why we don't try to have sex with under-aged girls." Another lesson pop? Damn it.
Carl Weathers's severed arm went on to receive an Emmy for best camerawork, while Carl went on to star in a line of infomercials advertising his tried and true method for making stew. No one has seen Arnold in years. |
Oh my. | [WP] Chris Hansen steps down and names Arnold Schwarzeneggar as his successor on To Catch a Predator. Arnold misunderstands the type of Predator he's hunting. | "Hi, I'm Arnold Schwarzenegger from To Catch a Predator. Why don't you have a seat? Do it! Come on. Doooooooo it!" | He stepped inside, pulling the door tight. The dim lights adjacent his location strained his eyes, wondering why he came here in the first place. It didn't matter know, to kate to turn-
Something in the corner! A shadow creeped upon him faster then he could react. A knife across his neck, a massive hand contorting his skull to one side.
"Shhhhh...." the mystery figure whispered into the man's ear. "It is here, tell me what you see," a accented voice thicker then his mother's pea soup emanated as his heart beat put of his chest.
"Wh- what?" The frightened man asked. Emotions overpowering him, his senses overloaded as his sympathetic nervous system dumped it load, making his knees weak. "W- Who?" He stuttered... |
Oh my. | [WP] Chris Hansen steps down and names Arnold Schwarzeneggar as his successor on To Catch a Predator. Arnold misunderstands the type of Predator he's hunting. | Someone was here..
Hsssssssssss chtchtch cht xht chtchtch keeeeeeehhhh.
The massive figure crashed down throught the skylight ceiling and scanned the room.
I step into one of many large bowls containing an unknown liquid...shorting out my already damaged cloaking shield.
Wzpft. Chemical spectral detection.
My computer recognizes this liquid as fruit punch...
Could it have been placed there just to short out my cloak? Impossible! No puny prey could think so!
Chtchtch chtchtch ...
Wzpft. Utraviolet spectrum. Wzpft. Low-MeV neutron detection. Wzpft.Infrared ..there!
Something there...some human sugary cake had been glopped around something..a human hand! Protruding out of a large cold mound near the human cooking room platform! Holding small paraffin figures. They were tiny, but burning.
A human sound : "Appy birthday!".
A massive cold shadow moved and ripped hoses out from the human cooking platform, holding them to the human wax icons and the world was blinding bright!
WHARRrRR! hugghhhhWrrrrr! The man-prey had ignited the gaseous cooking fuel and burned my visor!
He struck first! The dishonor!
Truely this was the human-warrior-prey the elders spoke of. He was cunning.
Within an instant I threw my spear into the metal box and cold darkness leaked out.
Pfftwoop. Pfftwoop.
Plasma caster fire perforated the adjoining eating room.
Pfftwoop Pfftwoop Pfftwoop .
Silence..
No-I will skin him alive and keep his skull for my own trophy. He will not be allowed an easy death...
I demove my damaged visor and swear it to my blood ancestors!
Chtchtch khaaaaa!!
Something darted quickly away.
I lept through the puny wall to grab him..but it was a decoy!
Air filled balloons tied to something....with human markings and a cold metal rock. Another trap!
A pin is released and it explodes!
Gaawwwwwwkkkkkg...mustn't fall...to the prey...
Must initiate .. Self.. Destruct.
I salute..you.. Man-prey. | He stepped inside, pulling the door tight. The dim lights adjacent his location strained his eyes, wondering why he came here in the first place. It didn't matter know, to kate to turn-
Something in the corner! A shadow creeped upon him faster then he could react. A knife across his neck, a massive hand contorting his skull to one side.
"Shhhhh...." the mystery figure whispered into the man's ear. "It is here, tell me what you see," a accented voice thicker then his mother's pea soup emanated as his heart beat put of his chest.
"Wh- what?" The frightened man asked. Emotions overpowering him, his senses overloaded as his sympathetic nervous system dumped it load, making his knees weak. "W- Who?" He stuttered... |
Oh my. | [WP] Chris Hansen steps down and names Arnold Schwarzeneggar as his successor on To Catch a Predator. Arnold misunderstands the type of Predator he's hunting. | [The light from monitors inside the makeshift production room glowed from the dark shadowy corner of an empty house. Thunder and wind howled and boomed outside the house as a girl sitting at one of the workstations watched her screen intensely.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-eDAoheZrY8)
"We're not getting any hits, Arnold." the girl exclaimed frustrated. "They're all too afraid to come out because of this damn storm."
"Dun worry, Lori. He will answer deh call." Arnold Schwarzenegger assured as he watched the front door with the same intensity.
"Maybe we should just call it a night. I know the guys would like to try and get home before the storm really hits." Lori continued.
"And ruin our only chance to trap it!?" Arnold yelled.
"Trap 'it'?" Lori asked, but chalking it up to a grammatical error, she continued, "I've tried everything, I can't get a single predator to come out."
"I putd out the bait hours ago. He'w be here any minute now." Arnold spoke softly.
"I'm sorry, what? Did you use my computer to lure someone in?" Lori inquired, irritated by the thought of an actor thinking he could do her job.
Crazy eyed, Arnold scolded Lori, "Oh when are you eggheads gonna get it through ya skulls? Doe's machines won't get him, yew gotta use a beacon like dis one which fell from his ship!" With that, Arnold revealed his bait as an alien artifact covered in mysterious writing and buttons. It glowed green and put Lori into a state of awe.
"Where... Where did you get that?" Lori asked concerned.
"Deh jungle." Arnold explained as he continued to fiddle with the device, changing the tone of it's color each time he pressed a new button.
As Lori backed away slowly, a young man in his early 20's ran into the room still laughing from something he and the other members had gotten into in the back. "You guys gotta see this, the model house actually has a _bidet_!" His attention was quickly drawn to the glowing device Arnold was tapping away on. "Say, what's that?"
"I think he's lost his mind, Duncan!" Lori pleaded.
"Quiet, both of you!" Arnold commanded.
"But I-" Lori continued.
"I SAID QUIET!" Arnold commanded again as he put his hand over Lori's mouth. "You hear dat? He's here!"
"Who's here?" Duncan whispered.
As the three cowered in the corner listening for sounds, thuds could be heard on the roof of the house followed by a loud noise just outside the kitchen window. Clicking sounds and heavy alien breathing sent chills down the spines of the crew but gave Arnold a smile.
"Go, tell the od'thers." Arnold softly instructed. "Do it! Do it now!"
Lori and Duncan visibly gripped by fear slowly crawled out of the room. The quiet empty setting suddenly burst into commotion as the kitchen wall was completely blown out and a shadowy large figure stepped through the rubble and smoke.
"GOOOO!" Arnold now screamed as he pulled an M16 from the rear of the couch. "GET TO DA CAMERAS!"
As Lori and Duncan ran down the hallway to the garage where the rest of the crew had been spending their time, Lori screamed incoherently through the sound of gunfire and blasts.
"Harry! Harry get the camera!" Duncan yelled.
"What the hell's goin on out there? Are you people nuts, we're renting this house you know." A stocky bald man with a Brooklyn accent yelled as Lori collapsed into his arms. "Hey what is wrong!?"
Duncan began gathering equipment while explaining the situation. "He brought the predator and now we've got something that might just be the best episode we have ever done."
"Wait a minute, he got one guy from the internet to come and they're making all that racket in there? Oh jeez we're gonna get sued!" Harry worried.
"Not a predator, _the_ predator!" Duncan corrected as a loud scream from Arnold could be heard from the living room, now in hand-to-hand combat.
Duncan and Harry gathered their equipment while the rest of the crew, including Lori, ran out through the garage door, leaving behind another young man who stood still in absolute fear. Duncan tried to utilize him and began to hand him a camera, but realized three red lights now rested on the young man's forehead.
"Cohagen!" Duncan screamed as his companion's head exploded from a laser blast.
"Come on! Come on Duncan, he's dead!" Harry yelled as he pulled Duncan towards the commotion with their cameras.
The two rushed towards the living room to find Arnold being held by his neck and thrown into the hallway.
"What ah you waiding for? Film dis!" Arnold screamed as he got up and ran right back at the predator. The two locked again and Arnold was again thrown, this time into the kitchen where the predator had initially entered. The predator was now free to reclaim his safety beacon. Growling and clicking, he analyzed the beacon and pressed a few buttons before it's glow vanished. The predator stood for a moment analyzing the device when suddenly gun fire from the kitchen blasted the device from his hands and splattered neon blood against the wall. The alien screamed in pain so loud that Duncan and Harry both grabbed their ears.
"Not today." Arnold spoke calmly as he unloaded all his M16 had to offer, sending the predator out into the street where the commotion had drawn neighbors out of their homes.
"He's getting away!" Arnold screamed as he chased after him.
The two cameramen followed soon after, exiting through the giant hole left in the side of the rented house. Just outside in the cul de sac a small ship de-cloaked into view. A stairway entrance was expanded with mist pouring out from the mysterious innards of the ship.
"Arnold no! We can't follow him in there!" Duncan pleaded.
"If we don't, we don't have an episode, now come ahn!" Arnold shouted as the three ran down the street. As they reached the ship, the entrance platform had already begun to withdraw and the ship began to leave. All three men jumped into the ship on time and the neighborhood was left to watch as they ascended into the dark storm above.
Now on board, the three men found themselves in an eerily silent misty room with the predator nowhere in sight. Arnold investigated closer to find neon green drops forming a trail to a corridor in front of them.
"Follow me." Arnold spoke as the two men continued to film.
The three men moved slowly down a hall, passing by rooms each meant for some bizarre alien function until reaching what could only be described as a human child's play room. Inside slept a young teenage girl, chained to the wall behind her.
"Holy shit, the predator is an actual predator." Duncan said while putting his camera down to help.
"Duncan, save deh gurl. Harwwy, you on me ok?" Arnold instructed.
"You got it." Harry acknowledged, never once turning his camera off.
As the two continued down the misty hallway, it opened up into a navigation room with the predator standing behind a console controlling the ship.
"Yew ah one ugly mudda fucka" Arnold spoke as he aimed through the sites of his gun, startling the beastly alien hunter which knew it had no way out. "Why dun you have a seat right over dere." Arnold continued.
As the predator sat down on a bench against the wall, Duncan and a girl ran into the room. The girl was overjoyed to be rescued, and spat into the predator's face.
Arnold turned to Harry and smiled. "I tink we got ah episode." he said.
"I think we do!" Harry giggled in response as all four human beings on board the alien ship cheered.
Months later the episode aired with it's new host. Arnold spoke into the camera, wrapping up the episode with an introduction to a slight recap, "And now, how about a followup to dat predator we caught? We found him during his court hearing later this fall." A clip of the predator standing before a judge next to his lawyer played for the audience.
"And now Mr. - Predator? Is it?" spoke the judge. "It says here you kidnapped a 12 year old girl on your spaceship? How do you plead."
The predator leaned over to his lawyer and whispered into his ear. Speaking on the predators behalf, the lawyer addressed the judge, "Your honor we plead not-guilty on account of a lack of proper warrant for my client's ship. Any and all evidence sought here throughout shall not be admissible into a court of law. We wish to file a motion to have this case thrown out."
"Your client was caught breaking federal law during a pursuit for a non-related crime. Your motion is denied."
As the predator heard this he looked straight up and screamed at the top of his lungs.
"You do that again and I'll hold you in contempt, mister." the judge reprimanded, shocking the predator who then made the same scream only far softer and under his breath."
"Next!" the judge screamed as the predator was led off in his orange jumpsuit and chains.
Cutting back to Arnold, the episode ended with a final note, "So dere you have it, another predator off the streets and out of the cosmos. This has been a great adventcha, tank you watching. Goodnight!" | He stepped inside, pulling the door tight. The dim lights adjacent his location strained his eyes, wondering why he came here in the first place. It didn't matter know, to kate to turn-
Something in the corner! A shadow creeped upon him faster then he could react. A knife across his neck, a massive hand contorting his skull to one side.
"Shhhhh...." the mystery figure whispered into the man's ear. "It is here, tell me what you see," a accented voice thicker then his mother's pea soup emanated as his heart beat put of his chest.
"Wh- what?" The frightened man asked. Emotions overpowering him, his senses overloaded as his sympathetic nervous system dumped it load, making his knees weak. "W- Who?" He stuttered... |
Oh my. | [WP] Chris Hansen steps down and names Arnold Schwarzeneggar as his successor on To Catch a Predator. Arnold misunderstands the type of Predator he's hunting. | I had been one of those years. I'd hit a dry spell. I tried the bar scene, but twelve months of looking netted me a big fat zero in the dating department. I only had three co-workers that were girls and they were big fat zeroes as well. I still hit them up though. They shot me down like an un-manned drone in Fallujah. There just wasn't a lot of women in my life to socialize with. There was Krystal that worked there register at the Kum and Go. There was Brooke who worked the register at the hardware store. And there was Mara who served me pancakes at the diner. That meant there was no one in my life, so I did what every one seems to do. I went online, and my luck was just as bad. Well, it was bad right up until I met Brandi with an I.
Oddly enough, I wasn't interested in her at first. She was fifteen. I was forty-one. She claimed she worked as a personal shopper. I knew it was wrong, but flirting with her was like being in high school again. It took about a week chatting back and forth to convince her to let me come over. I brought beer.
Walking up her drive way that night was one of the saddest walks of my life. I kept asking myself, was I really going to do this? Was I really going to have sex with a fifteen year old? It was the saddest moment of my life stepping on to sidewalk with the walk lights illuminating the path ahead. The tall shrubs and bushes to each side of the path was like a miniature jungle.
I tried to imagine what I would say to her father if he unexpectedly stepped out the foliage. I'd come up with several explanations for why I was there. The girl claimed to be a personal shopper. I could use that as an excuse. I'd just claim that I was in the market for a personal shopper and that I was responding to her ad on line. Oddly enough, having that lie on hand really calmed me down. I wasn't breaking any laws just showing up. Hell, she'd probably take one look at me and change her mind anyway.
Up ahead, the front door opened. I leapt off the walk in panic, hiding the beer among the bushes. When I poked my head out again to see who it was, I saw a girl of about fifteen with blonde hair and a bad makeup job checking her watch and biting her lip nervously. This brought a smile to my face and started to stepped out onto the walk again. That's when the biggest hand I'd ever seen came snaking out of the darkness and clamped itself across my mouth. I python like arm reeled me back into the grass.
"Are you crazy." An man with a heavy Austrian accent asked, his lips tickling my ear. I knew that accent. I knew that voice.
"Arnold?" I asked, petrified at being caught in the act and star struck all at the same time.
"Quiet. Do you want it to hear you?" He asked. "It's out there, waiting." He thrust his chiseled chin toward the darkened bushes across the walk. I fumbled with my keys, hoping to make a break for it. "What are you doin' out here all alone?"
"Personal . . . uh . . ." I gestured toward the porch and the girl. "Personal shopper." I accidently hit the button on my daub that locked my car. The car chirped three times and locked, flashing the lights once. That was all Arnold needed to hear. He shoved me toward the front porch and the girl.
"Get to the shoppa!" He cried, bursting out of the bushes. It staggered to the house in confusion while he fired the grenade launcher he was holding at my Mazada. "Go!" He cried again, plunging back into the shrubs. | He stepped inside, pulling the door tight. The dim lights adjacent his location strained his eyes, wondering why he came here in the first place. It didn't matter know, to kate to turn-
Something in the corner! A shadow creeped upon him faster then he could react. A knife across his neck, a massive hand contorting his skull to one side.
"Shhhhh...." the mystery figure whispered into the man's ear. "It is here, tell me what you see," a accented voice thicker then his mother's pea soup emanated as his heart beat put of his chest.
"Wh- what?" The frightened man asked. Emotions overpowering him, his senses overloaded as his sympathetic nervous system dumped it load, making his knees weak. "W- Who?" He stuttered... |
Oh my. | [WP] Chris Hansen steps down and names Arnold Schwarzeneggar as his successor on To Catch a Predator. Arnold misunderstands the type of Predator he's hunting. | The Audition
"Hello, I am here today auditioning for 'The Predator Catcher'. I think I would be perfect for this role, because look at me!! I can catch a pred-a-tah! I can use the mud and smear it all over my body, this confuses the predator as I am allowed free movement in the jungle. Then I can get close enough to.."
"Whoa... Arnold, we're going to have to stop you there. Actually. I really don't want to. I love where you were going with that, but we are referring to predators of a..... different nature.
"Ah, I love nature. You should have seen me protect it in California. It's all burning now. So back to this predator, you think maybe then he shouldn't be camping all the time then yes? Like, he's sick of the nature, so he goes into the city, like that one time with that pus-sy Danny Glover, but we film it right because we film it with me."
"Actually Mr. Schwarzeneggar, this show will focus more on predators more along the lines of Jared Fogle."
"WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?! JARED IS ONLY LIKE 200 POUNDS MAX, HE'D BE A PREDATORS BITCH NO SWEAT. Maybe fat Jared..... would've had the weight of a real predator but... Are you sure you don't like Sylvester Stallone better for the part?" | He stepped inside, pulling the door tight. The dim lights adjacent his location strained his eyes, wondering why he came here in the first place. It didn't matter know, to kate to turn-
Something in the corner! A shadow creeped upon him faster then he could react. A knife across his neck, a massive hand contorting his skull to one side.
"Shhhhh...." the mystery figure whispered into the man's ear. "It is here, tell me what you see," a accented voice thicker then his mother's pea soup emanated as his heart beat put of his chest.
"Wh- what?" The frightened man asked. Emotions overpowering him, his senses overloaded as his sympathetic nervous system dumped it load, making his knees weak. "W- Who?" He stuttered... |
Oh my. | [WP] Chris Hansen steps down and names Arnold Schwarzeneggar as his successor on To Catch a Predator. Arnold misunderstands the type of Predator he's hunting. | The fat sweaty man entered the house, already knowing the door was unlocked. In his hand was a bag, and the thought of what was in it made him drool.
But as he walked in, he had the distinct unsettling sensation that something was off.
"Mary ?" he called out.
He turned a corner to be confronted with pecks. A wall of taut rippling muscle. He looked up, into the face of Arnold Schwarzenegger.
"Mary's not here !" said a voice.
"Wh.. what?"
"TAKE DA SEAT !" the voice boomed, and the man felt himself being picked up and slammed onto a stool.
"Wh..wh"
The man was disoriented.
"I am Ah-nuld Schwarzenegger with Dateline NBC"
This finally shook the man from his confusion.
"What are you doing in my house !"
"I am going to "Catch the Predator"
Arnold flexed his biceps intimidatingly at the man.
"Hey.. What have you done with my cat ! Where's Mary !"
"The cat is safe. What is in the bag!"
" Chik-fil-A, and don't change the subject. Why are you here !"
"We need to talk about your INTERNET HISTORY"
"I'm not a pedophile ! I've never looked at child porn. I mean I watched anime, but that's different, they get their hooks in with interesting plot and characters, and suddenly you have an episode where everyone takes their clothes off and you're forced to watch it until the plot starts again...."
"NO ! I am here about your internet comments. Against the government"
"I don't understand."
There was silence, punctuated by the sound of a plane in the distance.
Then Arnold gave a big booming laugh.
"You are not the predator. You are the prey !"
Before the fat man could answer, Arnold picked him up and ran out into the garden. He was stunned by all the TV cameras. Arnold placed him on the ground, as the sound of a jet got louder.
Dazed, confused and still hungry, the sweaty man looked up into the air and saw a grey plane advancing towards his house. Arnold crouched, ready to strike.
Then he leapt into the air, cracking the ground beneath him. The cameras followed him up into the sky, as he grabbed the plane and suplexed it out of the sky.
As Arnold emerged from the burning wreckage of the predator drone, smoking a cigar, he gave a wry smile to the cameras.
"And that is how you catch a predator" | He stepped inside, pulling the door tight. The dim lights adjacent his location strained his eyes, wondering why he came here in the first place. It didn't matter know, to kate to turn-
Something in the corner! A shadow creeped upon him faster then he could react. A knife across his neck, a massive hand contorting his skull to one side.
"Shhhhh...." the mystery figure whispered into the man's ear. "It is here, tell me what you see," a accented voice thicker then his mother's pea soup emanated as his heart beat put of his chest.
"Wh- what?" The frightened man asked. Emotions overpowering him, his senses overloaded as his sympathetic nervous system dumped it load, making his knees weak. "W- Who?" He stuttered... |
Oh my. | [WP] Chris Hansen steps down and names Arnold Schwarzeneggar as his successor on To Catch a Predator. Arnold misunderstands the type of Predator he's hunting. | [The light from monitors inside the makeshift production room glowed from the dark shadowy corner of an empty house. Thunder and wind howled and boomed outside the house as a girl sitting at one of the workstations watched her screen intensely.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-eDAoheZrY8)
"We're not getting any hits, Arnold." the girl exclaimed frustrated. "They're all too afraid to come out because of this damn storm."
"Dun worry, Lori. He will answer deh call." Arnold Schwarzenegger assured as he watched the front door with the same intensity.
"Maybe we should just call it a night. I know the guys would like to try and get home before the storm really hits." Lori continued.
"And ruin our only chance to trap it!?" Arnold yelled.
"Trap 'it'?" Lori asked, but chalking it up to a grammatical error, she continued, "I've tried everything, I can't get a single predator to come out."
"I putd out the bait hours ago. He'w be here any minute now." Arnold spoke softly.
"I'm sorry, what? Did you use my computer to lure someone in?" Lori inquired, irritated by the thought of an actor thinking he could do her job.
Crazy eyed, Arnold scolded Lori, "Oh when are you eggheads gonna get it through ya skulls? Doe's machines won't get him, yew gotta use a beacon like dis one which fell from his ship!" With that, Arnold revealed his bait as an alien artifact covered in mysterious writing and buttons. It glowed green and put Lori into a state of awe.
"Where... Where did you get that?" Lori asked concerned.
"Deh jungle." Arnold explained as he continued to fiddle with the device, changing the tone of it's color each time he pressed a new button.
As Lori backed away slowly, a young man in his early 20's ran into the room still laughing from something he and the other members had gotten into in the back. "You guys gotta see this, the model house actually has a _bidet_!" His attention was quickly drawn to the glowing device Arnold was tapping away on. "Say, what's that?"
"I think he's lost his mind, Duncan!" Lori pleaded.
"Quiet, both of you!" Arnold commanded.
"But I-" Lori continued.
"I SAID QUIET!" Arnold commanded again as he put his hand over Lori's mouth. "You hear dat? He's here!"
"Who's here?" Duncan whispered.
As the three cowered in the corner listening for sounds, thuds could be heard on the roof of the house followed by a loud noise just outside the kitchen window. Clicking sounds and heavy alien breathing sent chills down the spines of the crew but gave Arnold a smile.
"Go, tell the od'thers." Arnold softly instructed. "Do it! Do it now!"
Lori and Duncan visibly gripped by fear slowly crawled out of the room. The quiet empty setting suddenly burst into commotion as the kitchen wall was completely blown out and a shadowy large figure stepped through the rubble and smoke.
"GOOOO!" Arnold now screamed as he pulled an M16 from the rear of the couch. "GET TO DA CAMERAS!"
As Lori and Duncan ran down the hallway to the garage where the rest of the crew had been spending their time, Lori screamed incoherently through the sound of gunfire and blasts.
"Harry! Harry get the camera!" Duncan yelled.
"What the hell's goin on out there? Are you people nuts, we're renting this house you know." A stocky bald man with a Brooklyn accent yelled as Lori collapsed into his arms. "Hey what is wrong!?"
Duncan began gathering equipment while explaining the situation. "He brought the predator and now we've got something that might just be the best episode we have ever done."
"Wait a minute, he got one guy from the internet to come and they're making all that racket in there? Oh jeez we're gonna get sued!" Harry worried.
"Not a predator, _the_ predator!" Duncan corrected as a loud scream from Arnold could be heard from the living room, now in hand-to-hand combat.
Duncan and Harry gathered their equipment while the rest of the crew, including Lori, ran out through the garage door, leaving behind another young man who stood still in absolute fear. Duncan tried to utilize him and began to hand him a camera, but realized three red lights now rested on the young man's forehead.
"Cohagen!" Duncan screamed as his companion's head exploded from a laser blast.
"Come on! Come on Duncan, he's dead!" Harry yelled as he pulled Duncan towards the commotion with their cameras.
The two rushed towards the living room to find Arnold being held by his neck and thrown into the hallway.
"What ah you waiding for? Film dis!" Arnold screamed as he got up and ran right back at the predator. The two locked again and Arnold was again thrown, this time into the kitchen where the predator had initially entered. The predator was now free to reclaim his safety beacon. Growling and clicking, he analyzed the beacon and pressed a few buttons before it's glow vanished. The predator stood for a moment analyzing the device when suddenly gun fire from the kitchen blasted the device from his hands and splattered neon blood against the wall. The alien screamed in pain so loud that Duncan and Harry both grabbed their ears.
"Not today." Arnold spoke calmly as he unloaded all his M16 had to offer, sending the predator out into the street where the commotion had drawn neighbors out of their homes.
"He's getting away!" Arnold screamed as he chased after him.
The two cameramen followed soon after, exiting through the giant hole left in the side of the rented house. Just outside in the cul de sac a small ship de-cloaked into view. A stairway entrance was expanded with mist pouring out from the mysterious innards of the ship.
"Arnold no! We can't follow him in there!" Duncan pleaded.
"If we don't, we don't have an episode, now come ahn!" Arnold shouted as the three ran down the street. As they reached the ship, the entrance platform had already begun to withdraw and the ship began to leave. All three men jumped into the ship on time and the neighborhood was left to watch as they ascended into the dark storm above.
Now on board, the three men found themselves in an eerily silent misty room with the predator nowhere in sight. Arnold investigated closer to find neon green drops forming a trail to a corridor in front of them.
"Follow me." Arnold spoke as the two men continued to film.
The three men moved slowly down a hall, passing by rooms each meant for some bizarre alien function until reaching what could only be described as a human child's play room. Inside slept a young teenage girl, chained to the wall behind her.
"Holy shit, the predator is an actual predator." Duncan said while putting his camera down to help.
"Duncan, save deh gurl. Harwwy, you on me ok?" Arnold instructed.
"You got it." Harry acknowledged, never once turning his camera off.
As the two continued down the misty hallway, it opened up into a navigation room with the predator standing behind a console controlling the ship.
"Yew ah one ugly mudda fucka" Arnold spoke as he aimed through the sites of his gun, startling the beastly alien hunter which knew it had no way out. "Why dun you have a seat right over dere." Arnold continued.
As the predator sat down on a bench against the wall, Duncan and a girl ran into the room. The girl was overjoyed to be rescued, and spat into the predator's face.
Arnold turned to Harry and smiled. "I tink we got ah episode." he said.
"I think we do!" Harry giggled in response as all four human beings on board the alien ship cheered.
Months later the episode aired with it's new host. Arnold spoke into the camera, wrapping up the episode with an introduction to a slight recap, "And now, how about a followup to dat predator we caught? We found him during his court hearing later this fall." A clip of the predator standing before a judge next to his lawyer played for the audience.
"And now Mr. - Predator? Is it?" spoke the judge. "It says here you kidnapped a 12 year old girl on your spaceship? How do you plead."
The predator leaned over to his lawyer and whispered into his ear. Speaking on the predators behalf, the lawyer addressed the judge, "Your honor we plead not-guilty on account of a lack of proper warrant for my client's ship. Any and all evidence sought here throughout shall not be admissible into a court of law. We wish to file a motion to have this case thrown out."
"Your client was caught breaking federal law during a pursuit for a non-related crime. Your motion is denied."
As the predator heard this he looked straight up and screamed at the top of his lungs.
"You do that again and I'll hold you in contempt, mister." the judge reprimanded, shocking the predator who then made the same scream only far softer and under his breath."
"Next!" the judge screamed as the predator was led off in his orange jumpsuit and chains.
Cutting back to Arnold, the episode ended with a final note, "So dere you have it, another predator off the streets and out of the cosmos. This has been a great adventcha, tank you watching. Goodnight!" | "Hi, I'm Arnold Schwarzenegger from To Catch a Predator. Why don't you have a seat? Do it! Come on. Doooooooo it!" |
Oh my. | [WP] Chris Hansen steps down and names Arnold Schwarzeneggar as his successor on To Catch a Predator. Arnold misunderstands the type of Predator he's hunting. | I had been one of those years. I'd hit a dry spell. I tried the bar scene, but twelve months of looking netted me a big fat zero in the dating department. I only had three co-workers that were girls and they were big fat zeroes as well. I still hit them up though. They shot me down like an un-manned drone in Fallujah. There just wasn't a lot of women in my life to socialize with. There was Krystal that worked there register at the Kum and Go. There was Brooke who worked the register at the hardware store. And there was Mara who served me pancakes at the diner. That meant there was no one in my life, so I did what every one seems to do. I went online, and my luck was just as bad. Well, it was bad right up until I met Brandi with an I.
Oddly enough, I wasn't interested in her at first. She was fifteen. I was forty-one. She claimed she worked as a personal shopper. I knew it was wrong, but flirting with her was like being in high school again. It took about a week chatting back and forth to convince her to let me come over. I brought beer.
Walking up her drive way that night was one of the saddest walks of my life. I kept asking myself, was I really going to do this? Was I really going to have sex with a fifteen year old? It was the saddest moment of my life stepping on to sidewalk with the walk lights illuminating the path ahead. The tall shrubs and bushes to each side of the path was like a miniature jungle.
I tried to imagine what I would say to her father if he unexpectedly stepped out the foliage. I'd come up with several explanations for why I was there. The girl claimed to be a personal shopper. I could use that as an excuse. I'd just claim that I was in the market for a personal shopper and that I was responding to her ad on line. Oddly enough, having that lie on hand really calmed me down. I wasn't breaking any laws just showing up. Hell, she'd probably take one look at me and change her mind anyway.
Up ahead, the front door opened. I leapt off the walk in panic, hiding the beer among the bushes. When I poked my head out again to see who it was, I saw a girl of about fifteen with blonde hair and a bad makeup job checking her watch and biting her lip nervously. This brought a smile to my face and started to stepped out onto the walk again. That's when the biggest hand I'd ever seen came snaking out of the darkness and clamped itself across my mouth. I python like arm reeled me back into the grass.
"Are you crazy." An man with a heavy Austrian accent asked, his lips tickling my ear. I knew that accent. I knew that voice.
"Arnold?" I asked, petrified at being caught in the act and star struck all at the same time.
"Quiet. Do you want it to hear you?" He asked. "It's out there, waiting." He thrust his chiseled chin toward the darkened bushes across the walk. I fumbled with my keys, hoping to make a break for it. "What are you doin' out here all alone?"
"Personal . . . uh . . ." I gestured toward the porch and the girl. "Personal shopper." I accidently hit the button on my daub that locked my car. The car chirped three times and locked, flashing the lights once. That was all Arnold needed to hear. He shoved me toward the front porch and the girl.
"Get to the shoppa!" He cried, bursting out of the bushes. It staggered to the house in confusion while he fired the grenade launcher he was holding at my Mazada. "Go!" He cried again, plunging back into the shrubs. | "Hi, I'm Arnold Schwarzenegger from To Catch a Predator. Why don't you have a seat? Do it! Come on. Doooooooo it!" |
Oh my. | [WP] Chris Hansen steps down and names Arnold Schwarzeneggar as his successor on To Catch a Predator. Arnold misunderstands the type of Predator he's hunting. | The Audition
"Hello, I am here today auditioning for 'The Predator Catcher'. I think I would be perfect for this role, because look at me!! I can catch a pred-a-tah! I can use the mud and smear it all over my body, this confuses the predator as I am allowed free movement in the jungle. Then I can get close enough to.."
"Whoa... Arnold, we're going to have to stop you there. Actually. I really don't want to. I love where you were going with that, but we are referring to predators of a..... different nature.
"Ah, I love nature. You should have seen me protect it in California. It's all burning now. So back to this predator, you think maybe then he shouldn't be camping all the time then yes? Like, he's sick of the nature, so he goes into the city, like that one time with that pus-sy Danny Glover, but we film it right because we film it with me."
"Actually Mr. Schwarzeneggar, this show will focus more on predators more along the lines of Jared Fogle."
"WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?! JARED IS ONLY LIKE 200 POUNDS MAX, HE'D BE A PREDATORS BITCH NO SWEAT. Maybe fat Jared..... would've had the weight of a real predator but... Are you sure you don't like Sylvester Stallone better for the part?" | "Hi, I'm Arnold Schwarzenegger from To Catch a Predator. Why don't you have a seat? Do it! Come on. Doooooooo it!" |
Oh my. | [WP] Chris Hansen steps down and names Arnold Schwarzeneggar as his successor on To Catch a Predator. Arnold misunderstands the type of Predator he's hunting. | [The light from monitors inside the makeshift production room glowed from the dark shadowy corner of an empty house. Thunder and wind howled and boomed outside the house as a girl sitting at one of the workstations watched her screen intensely.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-eDAoheZrY8)
"We're not getting any hits, Arnold." the girl exclaimed frustrated. "They're all too afraid to come out because of this damn storm."
"Dun worry, Lori. He will answer deh call." Arnold Schwarzenegger assured as he watched the front door with the same intensity.
"Maybe we should just call it a night. I know the guys would like to try and get home before the storm really hits." Lori continued.
"And ruin our only chance to trap it!?" Arnold yelled.
"Trap 'it'?" Lori asked, but chalking it up to a grammatical error, she continued, "I've tried everything, I can't get a single predator to come out."
"I putd out the bait hours ago. He'w be here any minute now." Arnold spoke softly.
"I'm sorry, what? Did you use my computer to lure someone in?" Lori inquired, irritated by the thought of an actor thinking he could do her job.
Crazy eyed, Arnold scolded Lori, "Oh when are you eggheads gonna get it through ya skulls? Doe's machines won't get him, yew gotta use a beacon like dis one which fell from his ship!" With that, Arnold revealed his bait as an alien artifact covered in mysterious writing and buttons. It glowed green and put Lori into a state of awe.
"Where... Where did you get that?" Lori asked concerned.
"Deh jungle." Arnold explained as he continued to fiddle with the device, changing the tone of it's color each time he pressed a new button.
As Lori backed away slowly, a young man in his early 20's ran into the room still laughing from something he and the other members had gotten into in the back. "You guys gotta see this, the model house actually has a _bidet_!" His attention was quickly drawn to the glowing device Arnold was tapping away on. "Say, what's that?"
"I think he's lost his mind, Duncan!" Lori pleaded.
"Quiet, both of you!" Arnold commanded.
"But I-" Lori continued.
"I SAID QUIET!" Arnold commanded again as he put his hand over Lori's mouth. "You hear dat? He's here!"
"Who's here?" Duncan whispered.
As the three cowered in the corner listening for sounds, thuds could be heard on the roof of the house followed by a loud noise just outside the kitchen window. Clicking sounds and heavy alien breathing sent chills down the spines of the crew but gave Arnold a smile.
"Go, tell the od'thers." Arnold softly instructed. "Do it! Do it now!"
Lori and Duncan visibly gripped by fear slowly crawled out of the room. The quiet empty setting suddenly burst into commotion as the kitchen wall was completely blown out and a shadowy large figure stepped through the rubble and smoke.
"GOOOO!" Arnold now screamed as he pulled an M16 from the rear of the couch. "GET TO DA CAMERAS!"
As Lori and Duncan ran down the hallway to the garage where the rest of the crew had been spending their time, Lori screamed incoherently through the sound of gunfire and blasts.
"Harry! Harry get the camera!" Duncan yelled.
"What the hell's goin on out there? Are you people nuts, we're renting this house you know." A stocky bald man with a Brooklyn accent yelled as Lori collapsed into his arms. "Hey what is wrong!?"
Duncan began gathering equipment while explaining the situation. "He brought the predator and now we've got something that might just be the best episode we have ever done."
"Wait a minute, he got one guy from the internet to come and they're making all that racket in there? Oh jeez we're gonna get sued!" Harry worried.
"Not a predator, _the_ predator!" Duncan corrected as a loud scream from Arnold could be heard from the living room, now in hand-to-hand combat.
Duncan and Harry gathered their equipment while the rest of the crew, including Lori, ran out through the garage door, leaving behind another young man who stood still in absolute fear. Duncan tried to utilize him and began to hand him a camera, but realized three red lights now rested on the young man's forehead.
"Cohagen!" Duncan screamed as his companion's head exploded from a laser blast.
"Come on! Come on Duncan, he's dead!" Harry yelled as he pulled Duncan towards the commotion with their cameras.
The two rushed towards the living room to find Arnold being held by his neck and thrown into the hallway.
"What ah you waiding for? Film dis!" Arnold screamed as he got up and ran right back at the predator. The two locked again and Arnold was again thrown, this time into the kitchen where the predator had initially entered. The predator was now free to reclaim his safety beacon. Growling and clicking, he analyzed the beacon and pressed a few buttons before it's glow vanished. The predator stood for a moment analyzing the device when suddenly gun fire from the kitchen blasted the device from his hands and splattered neon blood against the wall. The alien screamed in pain so loud that Duncan and Harry both grabbed their ears.
"Not today." Arnold spoke calmly as he unloaded all his M16 had to offer, sending the predator out into the street where the commotion had drawn neighbors out of their homes.
"He's getting away!" Arnold screamed as he chased after him.
The two cameramen followed soon after, exiting through the giant hole left in the side of the rented house. Just outside in the cul de sac a small ship de-cloaked into view. A stairway entrance was expanded with mist pouring out from the mysterious innards of the ship.
"Arnold no! We can't follow him in there!" Duncan pleaded.
"If we don't, we don't have an episode, now come ahn!" Arnold shouted as the three ran down the street. As they reached the ship, the entrance platform had already begun to withdraw and the ship began to leave. All three men jumped into the ship on time and the neighborhood was left to watch as they ascended into the dark storm above.
Now on board, the three men found themselves in an eerily silent misty room with the predator nowhere in sight. Arnold investigated closer to find neon green drops forming a trail to a corridor in front of them.
"Follow me." Arnold spoke as the two men continued to film.
The three men moved slowly down a hall, passing by rooms each meant for some bizarre alien function until reaching what could only be described as a human child's play room. Inside slept a young teenage girl, chained to the wall behind her.
"Holy shit, the predator is an actual predator." Duncan said while putting his camera down to help.
"Duncan, save deh gurl. Harwwy, you on me ok?" Arnold instructed.
"You got it." Harry acknowledged, never once turning his camera off.
As the two continued down the misty hallway, it opened up into a navigation room with the predator standing behind a console controlling the ship.
"Yew ah one ugly mudda fucka" Arnold spoke as he aimed through the sites of his gun, startling the beastly alien hunter which knew it had no way out. "Why dun you have a seat right over dere." Arnold continued.
As the predator sat down on a bench against the wall, Duncan and a girl ran into the room. The girl was overjoyed to be rescued, and spat into the predator's face.
Arnold turned to Harry and smiled. "I tink we got ah episode." he said.
"I think we do!" Harry giggled in response as all four human beings on board the alien ship cheered.
Months later the episode aired with it's new host. Arnold spoke into the camera, wrapping up the episode with an introduction to a slight recap, "And now, how about a followup to dat predator we caught? We found him during his court hearing later this fall." A clip of the predator standing before a judge next to his lawyer played for the audience.
"And now Mr. - Predator? Is it?" spoke the judge. "It says here you kidnapped a 12 year old girl on your spaceship? How do you plead."
The predator leaned over to his lawyer and whispered into his ear. Speaking on the predators behalf, the lawyer addressed the judge, "Your honor we plead not-guilty on account of a lack of proper warrant for my client's ship. Any and all evidence sought here throughout shall not be admissible into a court of law. We wish to file a motion to have this case thrown out."
"Your client was caught breaking federal law during a pursuit for a non-related crime. Your motion is denied."
As the predator heard this he looked straight up and screamed at the top of his lungs.
"You do that again and I'll hold you in contempt, mister." the judge reprimanded, shocking the predator who then made the same scream only far softer and under his breath."
"Next!" the judge screamed as the predator was led off in his orange jumpsuit and chains.
Cutting back to Arnold, the episode ended with a final note, "So dere you have it, another predator off the streets and out of the cosmos. This has been a great adventcha, tank you watching. Goodnight!" | Someone was here..
Hsssssssssss chtchtch cht xht chtchtch keeeeeeehhhh.
The massive figure crashed down throught the skylight ceiling and scanned the room.
I step into one of many large bowls containing an unknown liquid...shorting out my already damaged cloaking shield.
Wzpft. Chemical spectral detection.
My computer recognizes this liquid as fruit punch...
Could it have been placed there just to short out my cloak? Impossible! No puny prey could think so!
Chtchtch chtchtch ...
Wzpft. Utraviolet spectrum. Wzpft. Low-MeV neutron detection. Wzpft.Infrared ..there!
Something there...some human sugary cake had been glopped around something..a human hand! Protruding out of a large cold mound near the human cooking room platform! Holding small paraffin figures. They were tiny, but burning.
A human sound : "Appy birthday!".
A massive cold shadow moved and ripped hoses out from the human cooking platform, holding them to the human wax icons and the world was blinding bright!
WHARRrRR! hugghhhhWrrrrr! The man-prey had ignited the gaseous cooking fuel and burned my visor!
He struck first! The dishonor!
Truely this was the human-warrior-prey the elders spoke of. He was cunning.
Within an instant I threw my spear into the metal box and cold darkness leaked out.
Pfftwoop. Pfftwoop.
Plasma caster fire perforated the adjoining eating room.
Pfftwoop Pfftwoop Pfftwoop .
Silence..
No-I will skin him alive and keep his skull for my own trophy. He will not be allowed an easy death...
I demove my damaged visor and swear it to my blood ancestors!
Chtchtch khaaaaa!!
Something darted quickly away.
I lept through the puny wall to grab him..but it was a decoy!
Air filled balloons tied to something....with human markings and a cold metal rock. Another trap!
A pin is released and it explodes!
Gaawwwwwwkkkkkg...mustn't fall...to the prey...
Must initiate .. Self.. Destruct.
I salute..you.. Man-prey. |
Oh my. | [WP] Chris Hansen steps down and names Arnold Schwarzeneggar as his successor on To Catch a Predator. Arnold misunderstands the type of Predator he's hunting. | I had been one of those years. I'd hit a dry spell. I tried the bar scene, but twelve months of looking netted me a big fat zero in the dating department. I only had three co-workers that were girls and they were big fat zeroes as well. I still hit them up though. They shot me down like an un-manned drone in Fallujah. There just wasn't a lot of women in my life to socialize with. There was Krystal that worked there register at the Kum and Go. There was Brooke who worked the register at the hardware store. And there was Mara who served me pancakes at the diner. That meant there was no one in my life, so I did what every one seems to do. I went online, and my luck was just as bad. Well, it was bad right up until I met Brandi with an I.
Oddly enough, I wasn't interested in her at first. She was fifteen. I was forty-one. She claimed she worked as a personal shopper. I knew it was wrong, but flirting with her was like being in high school again. It took about a week chatting back and forth to convince her to let me come over. I brought beer.
Walking up her drive way that night was one of the saddest walks of my life. I kept asking myself, was I really going to do this? Was I really going to have sex with a fifteen year old? It was the saddest moment of my life stepping on to sidewalk with the walk lights illuminating the path ahead. The tall shrubs and bushes to each side of the path was like a miniature jungle.
I tried to imagine what I would say to her father if he unexpectedly stepped out the foliage. I'd come up with several explanations for why I was there. The girl claimed to be a personal shopper. I could use that as an excuse. I'd just claim that I was in the market for a personal shopper and that I was responding to her ad on line. Oddly enough, having that lie on hand really calmed me down. I wasn't breaking any laws just showing up. Hell, she'd probably take one look at me and change her mind anyway.
Up ahead, the front door opened. I leapt off the walk in panic, hiding the beer among the bushes. When I poked my head out again to see who it was, I saw a girl of about fifteen with blonde hair and a bad makeup job checking her watch and biting her lip nervously. This brought a smile to my face and started to stepped out onto the walk again. That's when the biggest hand I'd ever seen came snaking out of the darkness and clamped itself across my mouth. I python like arm reeled me back into the grass.
"Are you crazy." An man with a heavy Austrian accent asked, his lips tickling my ear. I knew that accent. I knew that voice.
"Arnold?" I asked, petrified at being caught in the act and star struck all at the same time.
"Quiet. Do you want it to hear you?" He asked. "It's out there, waiting." He thrust his chiseled chin toward the darkened bushes across the walk. I fumbled with my keys, hoping to make a break for it. "What are you doin' out here all alone?"
"Personal . . . uh . . ." I gestured toward the porch and the girl. "Personal shopper." I accidently hit the button on my daub that locked my car. The car chirped three times and locked, flashing the lights once. That was all Arnold needed to hear. He shoved me toward the front porch and the girl.
"Get to the shoppa!" He cried, bursting out of the bushes. It staggered to the house in confusion while he fired the grenade launcher he was holding at my Mazada. "Go!" He cried again, plunging back into the shrubs. | Someone was here..
Hsssssssssss chtchtch cht xht chtchtch keeeeeeehhhh.
The massive figure crashed down throught the skylight ceiling and scanned the room.
I step into one of many large bowls containing an unknown liquid...shorting out my already damaged cloaking shield.
Wzpft. Chemical spectral detection.
My computer recognizes this liquid as fruit punch...
Could it have been placed there just to short out my cloak? Impossible! No puny prey could think so!
Chtchtch chtchtch ...
Wzpft. Utraviolet spectrum. Wzpft. Low-MeV neutron detection. Wzpft.Infrared ..there!
Something there...some human sugary cake had been glopped around something..a human hand! Protruding out of a large cold mound near the human cooking room platform! Holding small paraffin figures. They were tiny, but burning.
A human sound : "Appy birthday!".
A massive cold shadow moved and ripped hoses out from the human cooking platform, holding them to the human wax icons and the world was blinding bright!
WHARRrRR! hugghhhhWrrrrr! The man-prey had ignited the gaseous cooking fuel and burned my visor!
He struck first! The dishonor!
Truely this was the human-warrior-prey the elders spoke of. He was cunning.
Within an instant I threw my spear into the metal box and cold darkness leaked out.
Pfftwoop. Pfftwoop.
Plasma caster fire perforated the adjoining eating room.
Pfftwoop Pfftwoop Pfftwoop .
Silence..
No-I will skin him alive and keep his skull for my own trophy. He will not be allowed an easy death...
I demove my damaged visor and swear it to my blood ancestors!
Chtchtch khaaaaa!!
Something darted quickly away.
I lept through the puny wall to grab him..but it was a decoy!
Air filled balloons tied to something....with human markings and a cold metal rock. Another trap!
A pin is released and it explodes!
Gaawwwwwwkkkkkg...mustn't fall...to the prey...
Must initiate .. Self.. Destruct.
I salute..you.. Man-prey. |
Oh my. | [WP] Chris Hansen steps down and names Arnold Schwarzeneggar as his successor on To Catch a Predator. Arnold misunderstands the type of Predator he's hunting. | The Audition
"Hello, I am here today auditioning for 'The Predator Catcher'. I think I would be perfect for this role, because look at me!! I can catch a pred-a-tah! I can use the mud and smear it all over my body, this confuses the predator as I am allowed free movement in the jungle. Then I can get close enough to.."
"Whoa... Arnold, we're going to have to stop you there. Actually. I really don't want to. I love where you were going with that, but we are referring to predators of a..... different nature.
"Ah, I love nature. You should have seen me protect it in California. It's all burning now. So back to this predator, you think maybe then he shouldn't be camping all the time then yes? Like, he's sick of the nature, so he goes into the city, like that one time with that pus-sy Danny Glover, but we film it right because we film it with me."
"Actually Mr. Schwarzeneggar, this show will focus more on predators more along the lines of Jared Fogle."
"WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?! JARED IS ONLY LIKE 200 POUNDS MAX, HE'D BE A PREDATORS BITCH NO SWEAT. Maybe fat Jared..... would've had the weight of a real predator but... Are you sure you don't like Sylvester Stallone better for the part?" | Someone was here..
Hsssssssssss chtchtch cht xht chtchtch keeeeeeehhhh.
The massive figure crashed down throught the skylight ceiling and scanned the room.
I step into one of many large bowls containing an unknown liquid...shorting out my already damaged cloaking shield.
Wzpft. Chemical spectral detection.
My computer recognizes this liquid as fruit punch...
Could it have been placed there just to short out my cloak? Impossible! No puny prey could think so!
Chtchtch chtchtch ...
Wzpft. Utraviolet spectrum. Wzpft. Low-MeV neutron detection. Wzpft.Infrared ..there!
Something there...some human sugary cake had been glopped around something..a human hand! Protruding out of a large cold mound near the human cooking room platform! Holding small paraffin figures. They were tiny, but burning.
A human sound : "Appy birthday!".
A massive cold shadow moved and ripped hoses out from the human cooking platform, holding them to the human wax icons and the world was blinding bright!
WHARRrRR! hugghhhhWrrrrr! The man-prey had ignited the gaseous cooking fuel and burned my visor!
He struck first! The dishonor!
Truely this was the human-warrior-prey the elders spoke of. He was cunning.
Within an instant I threw my spear into the metal box and cold darkness leaked out.
Pfftwoop. Pfftwoop.
Plasma caster fire perforated the adjoining eating room.
Pfftwoop Pfftwoop Pfftwoop .
Silence..
No-I will skin him alive and keep his skull for my own trophy. He will not be allowed an easy death...
I demove my damaged visor and swear it to my blood ancestors!
Chtchtch khaaaaa!!
Something darted quickly away.
I lept through the puny wall to grab him..but it was a decoy!
Air filled balloons tied to something....with human markings and a cold metal rock. Another trap!
A pin is released and it explodes!
Gaawwwwwwkkkkkg...mustn't fall...to the prey...
Must initiate .. Self.. Destruct.
I salute..you.. Man-prey. |
Oh my. | [WP] Chris Hansen steps down and names Arnold Schwarzeneggar as his successor on To Catch a Predator. Arnold misunderstands the type of Predator he's hunting. | The fat sweaty man entered the house, already knowing the door was unlocked. In his hand was a bag, and the thought of what was in it made him drool.
But as he walked in, he had the distinct unsettling sensation that something was off.
"Mary ?" he called out.
He turned a corner to be confronted with pecks. A wall of taut rippling muscle. He looked up, into the face of Arnold Schwarzenegger.
"Mary's not here !" said a voice.
"Wh.. what?"
"TAKE DA SEAT !" the voice boomed, and the man felt himself being picked up and slammed onto a stool.
"Wh..wh"
The man was disoriented.
"I am Ah-nuld Schwarzenegger with Dateline NBC"
This finally shook the man from his confusion.
"What are you doing in my house !"
"I am going to "Catch the Predator"
Arnold flexed his biceps intimidatingly at the man.
"Hey.. What have you done with my cat ! Where's Mary !"
"The cat is safe. What is in the bag!"
" Chik-fil-A, and don't change the subject. Why are you here !"
"We need to talk about your INTERNET HISTORY"
"I'm not a pedophile ! I've never looked at child porn. I mean I watched anime, but that's different, they get their hooks in with interesting plot and characters, and suddenly you have an episode where everyone takes their clothes off and you're forced to watch it until the plot starts again...."
"NO ! I am here about your internet comments. Against the government"
"I don't understand."
There was silence, punctuated by the sound of a plane in the distance.
Then Arnold gave a big booming laugh.
"You are not the predator. You are the prey !"
Before the fat man could answer, Arnold picked him up and ran out into the garden. He was stunned by all the TV cameras. Arnold placed him on the ground, as the sound of a jet got louder.
Dazed, confused and still hungry, the sweaty man looked up into the air and saw a grey plane advancing towards his house. Arnold crouched, ready to strike.
Then he leapt into the air, cracking the ground beneath him. The cameras followed him up into the sky, as he grabbed the plane and suplexed it out of the sky.
As Arnold emerged from the burning wreckage of the predator drone, smoking a cigar, he gave a wry smile to the cameras.
"And that is how you catch a predator" | Someone was here..
Hsssssssssss chtchtch cht xht chtchtch keeeeeeehhhh.
The massive figure crashed down throught the skylight ceiling and scanned the room.
I step into one of many large bowls containing an unknown liquid...shorting out my already damaged cloaking shield.
Wzpft. Chemical spectral detection.
My computer recognizes this liquid as fruit punch...
Could it have been placed there just to short out my cloak? Impossible! No puny prey could think so!
Chtchtch chtchtch ...
Wzpft. Utraviolet spectrum. Wzpft. Low-MeV neutron detection. Wzpft.Infrared ..there!
Something there...some human sugary cake had been glopped around something..a human hand! Protruding out of a large cold mound near the human cooking room platform! Holding small paraffin figures. They were tiny, but burning.
A human sound : "Appy birthday!".
A massive cold shadow moved and ripped hoses out from the human cooking platform, holding them to the human wax icons and the world was blinding bright!
WHARRrRR! hugghhhhWrrrrr! The man-prey had ignited the gaseous cooking fuel and burned my visor!
He struck first! The dishonor!
Truely this was the human-warrior-prey the elders spoke of. He was cunning.
Within an instant I threw my spear into the metal box and cold darkness leaked out.
Pfftwoop. Pfftwoop.
Plasma caster fire perforated the adjoining eating room.
Pfftwoop Pfftwoop Pfftwoop .
Silence..
No-I will skin him alive and keep his skull for my own trophy. He will not be allowed an easy death...
I demove my damaged visor and swear it to my blood ancestors!
Chtchtch khaaaaa!!
Something darted quickly away.
I lept through the puny wall to grab him..but it was a decoy!
Air filled balloons tied to something....with human markings and a cold metal rock. Another trap!
A pin is released and it explodes!
Gaawwwwwwkkkkkg...mustn't fall...to the prey...
Must initiate .. Self.. Destruct.
I salute..you.. Man-prey. |
Tell me, did we made front page? | [WP] The sirens sounded one last time. It's over now, it's done, we can rest now. | The sirens blare in the distance, and we know fear.
They have tried to kill us, these foul ones, with their weapons and their blades and even their claws. They stop at nothing to slaughter us, to wipe us out utterly. There can be no peace between us.
Once, they outnumbered us, as numerous as the stars in the night sky. They were endless in their hordes, without pity or mercy. They strove to wipe us out utterly.
If not for our survival instincts, if not for our determination, our endurance, we would have been annihilated.
That.. and their stench. There is just something about it--it reeks beyond description, filling our nostrils and throats. It drives us to fury, like the berserkers of old.
When it fills us, we can fight, we *must* fight. It banishes our fear, it drives us to feats of strength and courage we could never accomplish on our own. We are made savage. We can battle like never before.
Thanks to these things, we have fought the monsters that sought to slay us. Even now, many of those who once followed them, those of us that were trapped, they have joined our cause.
For now, it is we who outnumber them. If they were the stars, then now we are the night's sky brought close to morning. They fade and we fill the places they once burned, where they sought to drive us out.
They could lay down their arms, they could surrender and join us, but this they will not do. Their instinct to kill is too strong. They will fight to the bitter end, and we shall meet them with our fury.
With my brothers and sisters, I charge forward as the siren's song sweeps across the land. It is the anthem that plays over this last battle as we drive these horrid creatures from our world. It is our victory song.
The conflict is a blur, of red and white and black. Fast, quick, ruthless, brutal. It is over almost before it began, the foul ones brought down by our savagery and sheer numbers.
Through it all, the siren wails as if in mourning.
I crouch over the last body of the slain. The creautre is torn apart, as if by wild animals, and its warm blood cools on my face and hands.
Before me, the monster's body begins to twitch, to shake, not quite dead, not quite alive. It is still for a moment, and then it is dead.
With it fades the stench, fades the fury. My thoughts turn to peace and not slaughter. I have become whole again.
In its place, my new sister rises up and looks at me with lost, vacant eyes. I reach out, a comforting gesture. I can not speak, but if I could, I would say "*Is is okay, sweet sister. There are none at all left to fight...*"
The sirens sound one last time. It is over now, it is done, we can rest now.
Our world is finally at peace. | The sirens ended hours ago. The central computer diverted their power source to extending life support a few precious hours more. It was for nothing in the end, as I am the last survivor on this ship. Humanity's last hope, Redemption flew away from a corrupt, poisoned world. We only lasted two weeks before they found us. The aliens thought we were weak. They're all dead now. So is our entire crew, but we made those bastards pay. 500 humans were on this ship when they boarded, breaching the hull. The fuckers don't have to breathe so they were content to let us suffocate and take the ship with no resistance. Hundreds died almost instantly, sucked out into the endless oblivion of space. By the time life support sealed the breach, we knew what was happening. Those who could find weapons armed themselves, and those who couldn't braced themselves. They killed us off methodically, groups of 10 or 15 hunting down lone survivors. A group of 7, myself included, barricaded ourselves in the kitchens. They assaulted dozens of times, destroying any fortifications we had made then rushing in to finish us off. Their fatal flaw was underestimating our strength, and our will to live. The aliens had vastly superior weaponry, but we had a massive upper hand in size. I cannot tell you how many of those little blue fucks I choked, stabbed, and shot. I thought they were without end, but then... Then they started speaking. At this point only a few of us were alive, with one more survivor injured and slowly dying in the corner. I do not know which one spoke, but I only ever heard one voice. I will not tell you what he told me, but in the end I wept. For myself, for my race, and for my planet. They were there to end us all, to finish what we had started on Earth.
In the end, I don't think they truly understood us. They didn't realize the depths of human spite. They didn't realize it until the countdown started. |
Tell me, did we made front page? | [WP] The sirens sounded one last time. It's over now, it's done, we can rest now. | The sirens blare in the distance, and we know fear.
They have tried to kill us, these foul ones, with their weapons and their blades and even their claws. They stop at nothing to slaughter us, to wipe us out utterly. There can be no peace between us.
Once, they outnumbered us, as numerous as the stars in the night sky. They were endless in their hordes, without pity or mercy. They strove to wipe us out utterly.
If not for our survival instincts, if not for our determination, our endurance, we would have been annihilated.
That.. and their stench. There is just something about it--it reeks beyond description, filling our nostrils and throats. It drives us to fury, like the berserkers of old.
When it fills us, we can fight, we *must* fight. It banishes our fear, it drives us to feats of strength and courage we could never accomplish on our own. We are made savage. We can battle like never before.
Thanks to these things, we have fought the monsters that sought to slay us. Even now, many of those who once followed them, those of us that were trapped, they have joined our cause.
For now, it is we who outnumber them. If they were the stars, then now we are the night's sky brought close to morning. They fade and we fill the places they once burned, where they sought to drive us out.
They could lay down their arms, they could surrender and join us, but this they will not do. Their instinct to kill is too strong. They will fight to the bitter end, and we shall meet them with our fury.
With my brothers and sisters, I charge forward as the siren's song sweeps across the land. It is the anthem that plays over this last battle as we drive these horrid creatures from our world. It is our victory song.
The conflict is a blur, of red and white and black. Fast, quick, ruthless, brutal. It is over almost before it began, the foul ones brought down by our savagery and sheer numbers.
Through it all, the siren wails as if in mourning.
I crouch over the last body of the slain. The creautre is torn apart, as if by wild animals, and its warm blood cools on my face and hands.
Before me, the monster's body begins to twitch, to shake, not quite dead, not quite alive. It is still for a moment, and then it is dead.
With it fades the stench, fades the fury. My thoughts turn to peace and not slaughter. I have become whole again.
In its place, my new sister rises up and looks at me with lost, vacant eyes. I reach out, a comforting gesture. I can not speak, but if I could, I would say "*Is is okay, sweet sister. There are none at all left to fight...*"
The sirens sound one last time. It is over now, it is done, we can rest now.
Our world is finally at peace. | Systems calm,
all warnings off.
-
The airlock closes,
as the red spot hides away.
-
All this Skin flaking off;
shattered hairs falling heavy.
-
My Birthing engine, cooling, slowing.
-
A molten god steaming a freezing tomb,
lost away his mortal repel.
-
This half mind, left to rest.
-
Now long journies they take through distant void;
large houses to massive homes.
-
Last to dwell alone, after a battle fought well;
a matter of debate of state,
clashing damp swords against rotting shields,
on periodic chess tables,
with our swollen eyes searching for that which blinds it,
but just two monsters without any will.
|
Tell me, did we made front page? | [WP] The sirens sounded one last time. It's over now, it's done, we can rest now. | When the sirens sounded one last time, in signal that the threat had safely passed, silence filled every inch of the basement. Every family inside the dank, moldy room let out a breath of relief. We were still for a moment more, unsure and afraid.
My mother held me and Joseph closer to her, her hands were cold but comforting. As she brushed her fingers through my long, blonde hair she whispered lullabies in my ear. It was clear she was trying hard to ease my fears but she ended up comforting herself more than me.
Joe held out his small, dirty hand to me silently asking for my participation in our mother's charade. Everything would be okay. It was over. We could rest. I could pretend that this was true, I could do that for him.
I took his hand in mine, not much bigger than his but my eleven years on earth had given me a strength he hadn't grown into yet.
As we heard the sound of soldiers moving freely above ground the people of Shop Street, hidden enclosed beneath the earth, started to make their way home.
Back to their beds where they would pretend that they were safe.
We should have been secure that night, we had done what we were supposed to do. The sirens wailed and we listened. The sirens stopped and we hid. The sirens wailed again and we were safe.
But war does not go as planned, you cannot predict your fates.
One plane had fallen behind, far enough that we believed we could sleep in peace. It should not have fired, but it did. And it was as my mother had let Joseph down from her arms, to walk back home by himself, that he pointed to the sky.
The sirens frantically wailed again, but it was too late. We didn't even have enough time to look up to the sky before we fell. My little brothers wide eyes were the last thing I'd see, and in my last moment I wished that those eyes had been wide in wonder not horror.
| Systems calm,
all warnings off.
-
The airlock closes,
as the red spot hides away.
-
All this Skin flaking off;
shattered hairs falling heavy.
-
My Birthing engine, cooling, slowing.
-
A molten god steaming a freezing tomb,
lost away his mortal repel.
-
This half mind, left to rest.
-
Now long journies they take through distant void;
large houses to massive homes.
-
Last to dwell alone, after a battle fought well;
a matter of debate of state,
clashing damp swords against rotting shields,
on periodic chess tables,
with our swollen eyes searching for that which blinds it,
but just two monsters without any will.
|
[WP] During a routine consultation with your psychiatrist, he accidentally responds to a question from one of your 'hallucinations'. How do you respond? | It was when Dr Hinmer directly addressed Phyllis that I realised something wasn’t quite right.
“Your hair is looking very… soft, Phyllis. Have you changed your shampoo?”
“New conditioner.” Phyllis replied.
“Ah, splendid.”
I stammered in disbelief.
“You can...”
“See her? Yes.”
“How is that possible?”
“Well, you’ve described her to me so many times, how she looks, how she speaks, the fact that she follows you around. I just assumed she’d be here, for, you know, moral support.”
I paused.
“So, you can’t actually see her”.
“I can see her as well as you can see her, and that’s what counts, right?”
The sarcastic prick. I stood up and punched him straight in the mouth; nobody takes the piss out of me. I sat back down as blood began to pour from his nose. My knuckles had a slight sting to them. He didn’t even flinch.
“Are you keeping up on your medication?”
I scrambled in my pockets to find the empty pillbox as proof. When I looked back up the blood on Hinmer’s nose had gone. Fuck. Another hallucination.
“Yeah, sure…” I stammered.
“You don’t seem certain. Let me look at the pills?”
I passed him the now full pillbox.
“You haven’t taken any! No wonder your episodes have got worse.”
"I could have sworn?”
“Do you remember taking them?”
I lied.
“Yes.”
Hinmer leaned forward slightly.
“Absolutely certain?”
I lied again.
“Yes. Yes I fucking remember. That must be a new box I accidently picked up.”
He turned to his desk and began writing something on a clipboard. I looked up at the clock on the wall. The time was 12:25; only five more minutes left of this shit. He turned back to face me.
“And how is Phyllis? How many times a week is she visiting?”
“Once every couple of days.”
She hadn’t left since last Tuesday, but I didn’t want him to give me any more pills to take.
“Good, good.” He said, writing more information down onto the clipboard. He flipped the page he had been using over to reveal more blank boxes that needed filling.
“So, are we going to finish at half past like normal?”
“I should think so, if we can get this section done in the next couple of minutes.”
I didn’t particularly want to over-run; I knew Phyllis would get impatient. That never ends well. I tried to make some small talk to avoid answering any more of the questions.
“Have you got anything you’re doing after this?” I asked.
“I’m working the rest of the day. Now, onto…”
“It’s just I really need to catch my train at quarter too. I’ve got a big party I’m going to?”
“Oh?”
“Nothing serious, just something with a few friends.”
Himner raised one eyebrow.
“Real friends?”
I looked away in embarrassment. He knew I didn’t have any real friends. I bent down and began to re-lace one of my shoes to avoid eye contact.
“…Yeah, sure. Real friends. Jerry, Tony, Pete. Have I never ment…”
I looked back up. Himner was gone. The room was empty. Suddenly, I could hear footsteps approaching the door. It swung open.
“Sorry to keep you waiting Tim” said Dr Joseph. “I was just running a little late.”
I looked up at the clock on the wall. The time was 12:00.
--
EDIT: Formatting
*Like my stuff and want to read more? For 2016 I've set myself the task of writing a short piece every day of the year, using r/writingprompts for help. You can follow my progress and read more content here:* http://tamaxwell.tumblr.com/
| I have a hard time opening up to people. My mother always said I should be more honest, while my father said there was a quiet honor in taking things with silence, perhaps that’s why I struggle with it. If I hit the gym more, I’d be described as the ‘strong and silent’ type. It’s not healthy. I know it’s not, perhaps that’s the biggest difference between me and my father: I know bottling up what I feel isn’t right. It’s not good for me, but like an addict trying to kick a bad habit, I don’t know how to structure my life around “sharing.” Perhaps that is the most frustrating element, in a life where I’ve been able to be successful at most everything, I have no idea where to start with *feelings*. Even the word makes me uncomfortable. Every time I mention it, I look over my shoulder, waiting for my childhood friend Joey Peplinsky to make some remark about me being a woman.
The fact that I’m sitting in an office, across from a psychiatrist is the 8th wonder of the world. I couldn’t share anything with girlfriends in years past, a flaw that became the catalyst for many breakups, and yet I’m talking to a complete stranger. Nay, I’m *paying* a complete stranger $100 an hour so I can share my *feelings.* I look down at my hands when I speak, but when I look up, I half expect to see Joey Peplinksy’s sneering face looking back at me.
“Why don’t we talk about your childhood,” Dr. Randolph says.
She’s at least ten years older than me, pushing her forties and not aging all that well. Wrinkles frame her tired eyes, great rivets carved by sun or stress or simply age. A bluish shadow hangs beneath those eyes, eyebrows furrowed folding creases on her forehead. Her hair reminds me of an old broom and a dying fireplace. She’s not married, or at least doesn’t wear a ring to signify it.
“What would you like to know?” I asked her.
“Whatever you’d like to tell me.”
“Well… I…” I looked down at my hands. “My mom and dad were good people, I guess.”
“We’re not searching for problems, Blake,” she said from across the room. “We can simply talk.”
“Ok… I guess… I guess I’m just not sure where to start.” I brought my gaze back to her, she met me with a small, but warm smile. Then I saw Joey, his head peered from around her, as if he’d been hiding. His face was wicked, teeth looked almost filed behind his Cheshire cat grin. The dichotomy between his sinister and her gracious look sent a zipper up my spine. Gooseflesh broke out over my body.
“What’s the first thing you feel when I mention your childhood?” she asked. Joey mocked her, moving his mouth while she spoke then pouted and rubbed imaginary tears from his eyes.
“I…” I started, and searched for my hands again. “Stafford elementary. Chocolate milk at lunch. Ms. Denning my fourth grade teacher. Figaro, my black and white cat named after the cat in Pinocchio. My parents bought an RV when I was 10 and we traveled. Joey.” The word stung when I said it. I’m not sure why I did. I wanted to start talking and keep talking, fearful that that part of me would take over and smother my voice. I had no idea what I was saying, but at least I was saying something.
“Sounds wonderful.” She said easily, jotting something down on her notepad. “I don’t think I’ve ever got such a quick and succinct high light of someone’s life… Blake?”
Her voice was distant. How did my hands get so dirty? I picked at the black ring beneath my finger nails. They looked old, my hands. When did they start to get so old?
“Blake.” Dr. Randolph said, leaning forward in her chair.
“Sorry, what was that? I checked out for a second.” I looked up, hoping to find her alone in the room, but Joey was still there. He leaned against the desk and picked at his nails with her letter opener.
“I said, ‘who is Joey?’”
“Just a friend of mine from when I was a kid.”
“Were you two close?”
I shot a glance at Joey leaning in the corner, he paused his ritual and looked at me incredulously, *Cat got your tongue?*
“Yeah, very.”
“Are you still close?”
The question took me off guard, mostly because I wasn’t sure how to answer it. Were we close? In a way, yeah. In most ways though, no.
“No.” I said.
“Something happen between you?”
Joey shook his head from across the room, his index finger ran across the span of his throat in a threatening gesture. Eyes furious. No, *desperate.* Desperate as the day they had been the last I saw him. Pleading.
“To him, yeah. He, uhh…” Why was I paying this person to listen? “He died when we were kids.” Joey’s look finally turned fury. My strong and silent companion was upset, it took every ounce of my self-control to keep from saying ‘sorry’ out loud.
“What are you looking at, Blake?”
“I’m sorry?”
“I said, ‘what are you looking at, Blake.’ “
“No one.”
“No one?”
“I mean, nothing.”
She searched me with her tired eyes. For the first time in our meetings I felt horribly uncomfortable, like my mother had found my internet search history or I’d been caught stealing alms for the poor. I felt filthy. Wretched. Had my hands *always been so disgusting?* I needed to wash them. A clawing animalistic part of me needed a sink. A starving man before a buffet would be less driven to quench his hunger; his desire. It felt wrong, I *knew* it was wrong. By the way Joey was looking at me with his dead eyes, I knew I had gone too far. *I’m sorry, Joey. I’m sorry.*
“Is Joey in the room with us now, Blake?”
I shot eyes from Joey to her, wide with fear. How did she know?
“No… I just…”
The world would know I’m insane. I’m off my rocker. Cold sweat poured from my pits, I felt the world narrow. It was the beginning of the end for me. I’d be sent to an institution. Given drugs and have the emotional compass of sloth. All because I wanted to share my *feelings.*
“Where is he,” she asked. Her expression completely normal, as if she *wasn’t* talking about an adult’s imaginary friend.
“He’s behind you.” I said after a moment. Joey shot a fearful look my direction.
“Ok, thank you.” She didn’t look back though. How could she not look back? “Here’s what I want you to do. It’s OK if he stays here, if you want him to but I need you to talk to me, OK? If he’s a distraction he’ll need to leave.”
“I…”
“Now, tell me,” she said, cutting me off. Another easy smile spread across her face, “where did you travel when your parents bought that RV?”
|
|
[WP] The organization's top "assassin" secretly spares all of his targets; relocating and hiding them with the money earned from their bounty. | The room was a gory mess, and even the most amateur private eye would be able to deduce it was a crime scene. White sheets turned an ugly red, a puddle of blood seeping through the mattress. A mirror on the other side of the room was shattered. Finger trails of blood were drawn on the wall, then on the floor to the bathroom. The blue, plastic shower curtain with yellow fish on it was on the floor, corner of it dipped in violence. Berry Peach, "The Sweetener," and coincidentally the highest paid assassin in the continental United States, was lighting a cigarette in an untouched thousand dollar suit. His lighter clicked shut.
A frail man - anorexic, actually - sat in a wooden chair across from Berry. Blood pooled around his bare feet, and meatless fingers grabbed nervous fistfuls of his baggy basketball shorts. He was looking at Buddy with wide eyes and he was violently shaking. Dirty blonde hair hung over his pale, unhealthy face, and bloodless lips quivered.
"Might have been a little overkill." Berry mumbled, cigarette dangling. He wasn't an exceptionally outstanding man. Of average height with a scar less face and brown eyes, the most outstanding thing about him was the insane situation he was in, and the shiny, seven hundred dollar shoes he was wearing.
"But you're -" The anorexic started.
"Supposed to kill you, yes. Someone really wanted you dead to have to hire me," Berry whistled low. "You really fucked up, Mr. Redfield. Investigative journalist, huh? There are two kinds of guys like you - hard to catch weasels, or people willing to die for the truth."
Redfield shifted. "People deserve to know the truth."
Berry Peach leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. The chaotic room seemed to swirl around him. He cracked a smile. "But not the people you're busting - we're going to lie.
Redfield shook his head. Berry explained the situation before, even though he had to hold a gun to the journalists head to scare him into listening. He was just going through the motions - fake the murder, make it especially violent, smuggle out the target, then call up the clean up guys he knew. No one suspected a thing. Not the buyer, not the law, not even the clean up crew.
Berry didn't actually have the stomach to murder. It wasn't in him, and the idea made him sick. He didn't understand how people could throw away a life - something priceless - for some dollar bills. Other hit men he ran across were disconnected from life, and had fully separated themselves from the deed they were doing. Berry wasn't like that, and his exuberance and life that he still had after two decades in the business dubbed him the nickname, "The Sweetener." His name made it perfectly appropriate
What Berry was good at was lying and faking a scene. Since day one, he had always smuggled out the targets. He knew a guy who could scramble up a fake identity, and Berry always paid in cash so he never asked questions about why the assassin needed them so often. Usually the targets were shipped off to remote places - island, usually. It was easy to get lost in Indonesia.
"Your new name is Lance Quik," Berry said, pulling out the information from a pocket in his suit. He presented it to Redfield. "You're a hippie with an urge to travel the world and live off the earth and among strangers. You already look the part, kid."
"But the Congressman..."
"You know what they say about politics, 'it is said to be the oldest profession in the world. I have learned that it bears a striking resemblance to the first.' I think Kennedy said that?"
"Ronald Reagan."
Berry shrugged, shaking the information. "Whatever. Point is, that fat pig will get what is coming to him. They always do. Besides," He winked. "I know a guy. Now take the information, Redfield, and live for another day."
There was a moment of pause in the journalists eyes. Berry understood it. What he was asking was extreme. Throw away your previous life and live out the rest in solitude and probably loneliness. Friends, family, work, lovers. All of it had to go. But with the good left behind, there was always a pile of bad too. They could find the pleasure of disappearing if they tried. Redfield looked around the bloodied room.
"C'mon, kid. Just take the ID. There's a black car waiting outside for you and a change of clothes. Just get to the airport, take the money, and head to Indonesia. Or this little setup," He waved around the room. "This'll be your blood, not pigs blood."
That seemed to kick him into gear. Standing on emaciated legs, still clutching his basketball shorts, he slowly stepped over to Berry. He reached out and took the information in bony fingers.
"And the Congressman?" He asked in a nervous voice.
Berry put on a winning smile. "Let me worry about that. Just get out of here."
Redfield shuffled toward the door a little faster than he would have liked to admit. Hand on the doorknob, he mumbled a quiet "Thank you." Then he was gone, and the door slowly swung back in on itself. Berry exhaled and leaned back in the chair. Convincing them was always the hardest part, but the violent set up wasn't just for show. It was a little bit of roleplaying. It gave them a good perspective of what could happen if they stayed. Berry pulled his phone out.
"Yeah, Clyde? Bare Bones Cleaning? It's Berry. I got a little bit of a mess. Stained my bed sheets." Smiling, he pulled out his dying cigarette and flicked it on the bloodied floor. It hissed on contact, and a thin line of smoke rose from the corpse.
Berry "The Sweetener" Peach, crossed his legs and half an hour later got a call about taking out a rival mob boss. Business was booming; business was good.
| Title: Mr. Boba
"We're onto you Mr. Boba Fett."
"I don't know what you're talking about Agent Daniels," said Mr. Boba.
"Oh I think you do," said Agent Daniels. He smiled slowly. "You see, Agent Donnie has a few images you might like to see."
The interrogation room was only lit at the desk. It made their faces look ominously grotesque. Agent Daniels gestured to Agent Donnie standing behind his seat. Agent Donnie walked up with a picture.
"We know that you've been hiding people away all across California and the Pacific Northwest," said Agent Daniels.
"And making them," said Agent Donnie as he put down a picture of a delicious beverage with tapioca balls at the bottom. "Work at your BUBBLE TEA HUTS."
"That's *bullshit*," said Mr. Boba. His panicked eyes looked this way and that, and at the doorknob. Then he looked back at the Agents. "Agent Daniels you know that's bullshit, I would never do such a thing I always *kill* my targets and dispose of their remains."
"Dispose of their remains hmm," said Agent Daniels. He put his sunglasses on and picked up one of the many manila folders on the desk to get some other images. It was all ready dimly lit in there, so it made no sense for him to put on some sunglasses, but it made him look significantly cooler and more intimidating so he did it anyway. "We have images from over thirty locations of your Bubble Tea Huts."
"Which we've since realized," said Agent Donnie, as he showed Mr. Boba his iPhone with some search results on it. "We've since realized that BOBA MEANS BUBBLE TEA."
"You're reaching goddamnit," said Mr. Boba. He straightened out his suit jacket. "You're reaching *really* hard right now."
Agent Donnie rifled through some more Google Images with a sinister smile on his face, and he even looked at one like he was really craving it for a second, then he went back to being intimidating in the dark background once Agent Daniels told him to get the hell back over there.
"You look like a dumbass," whispered Agent Daniels, like he was ruining the interrogation. He straightened out his suit jacket as he set more images down.
It was over a hundred images of targets meant for previous assassinations. All of them happily working and selling smoothies and other delicious Asian beverages.
"Fuck," said Mr. Boba under his breath. He started to shake. The agents realized they had him now.
"Be honest now," said Agent Daniels.
Mr. Boba looked up at the ceiling and some tears fell. He decided to do just that.
"All right, *fuck* all right, the *kof kof* the truth is," said Mr. Boba. He was sweating profusely now. He knew nobody would believe what he was about to say, but he said it anyway. Honesty's the best policy. "The truth is i was a *bounty hunter* in a previous universe. I wouldn't talk much back then, I got over my shyness when I came to Earth. But I fell into some weird ass pit that ended up being a *portal to another dimensio-*"
"What the fuck is he talking about?" said Agent Daniels to Agent Donnie. He just shrugged and kept listening.
"I didn't much like killing people," said Mr. Boba. "So I'd just retrieve them for other people who would do with them as they pleased."
"Shit our best assassin just went insane," said Agent Daniels.
Then moments later a wormhole opened up within the room.
An old ass Jedi came in and chopped both the Agents heads off.
"HOLY SHIT," said Mr. Boba. His chair flew against the wall he stood up so fast.
The Jedi lifted up his hood and reached his hand out.
"Hi," he said. He still sounded like the same old farmboy even though he looked so old. "My name's Luke Skywalker I'm here to rescue you." |
|
[WP] The organization's top "assassin" secretly spares all of his targets; relocating and hiding them with the money earned from their bounty. | I don’t understand why he did what he did but I know it was a mistake. He was supposed to kill them all and he didn’t. In fact, he’s a fool for it. We’re assassins: it’s our goddamn job. And now it has to be fixed. All because of him.
Vaughn Hylander is his name. Number one at our company. Not one day goes past without our boss mentioning how outstanding he is. ‘The targets simply disappear,’ they say. I guess that’s why he’s nicknamed as the Vaporiser… Well, he must have been ingenious and extended his outstanding skills to himself as now he seems to have evaporated, too. The star and legend that is Vaughn the Vaporiser has gone off our radar.
Not without reason though. Yesterday someone in admin received a strange tip-off from an anonymous source. Shit hit the fan at the office: turns out that instead of giving his targets a bullet to the head (all three hundred and ninety-three of them) he’s been giving them a new identity (I repeat, all three hundred and ninety-three of them) and allowing them to escape, i.e. doing the exact opposite of what we’re meant to do. To make things worse, he’s been using the payments for the kills as funds to keep tabs these ‘victims’ of his. What a fool. One thing I know for sure is that I’ll never again in my career hear, ‘oh, Nicholas, have a look at the report from Vaughn’s latest hit’ or ’Vaughn may be able to give you a few tips’. Never again will any of us hear of him.
I can’t let the weird satisfaction take over, though. We could all lose our lives over this. Hence all orders have been suspended and the entire team is out trying to fix this mess. Including me. I got the best task of them all. I’m going to his designated safe-house. Apparently he left one of his latest targets there, ready to be flown to South Africa the next day.
*
Breaking in is easy enough. People think locks protect them, but truth is, it’s all bullshit. Buy the most expensive door you can and I’ll still get into your house without you hearing a thing.
I find the woman sat in the lounge. She’s probably the most interesting thing amongst the painful minimalism of the safe-house... The expensive blouse... Jewellery all over... The strange bruise on her temple. Watching me carefully as I walk closer, she draws her legs up onto the sofa.
‘Who are you? Are you from the firm?’ she sounds calmer than I expected her to.
I pause. My gun grows heavy in the holster. ‘I’m from the firm.’
‘Okay.’ She exhales in relief. ‘Sorry, Joe didn’t say anyone else would be coming, but… Is the flight sorted now? I heard there were some issues.’
‘Joe?’
‘Joe. He brought me here.’
‘Right,’ I say, feigning understanding. ‘Sure.’
So, Vaughn the Vaporiser is a simple Joe now. I’m starting to feel curious. ‘Has he… shown you any documents yet?’ I ask blindly.
‘I have the passport and all the bookings for the first few hotels. Do you need to see them?’ She almost gets up. She’s eager to do anything.
‘No, that’s okay.’ For a while I pretend to survey the room. ‘He’s… a… nice guy, right?’
‘He’s wonderful,’ she says. ‘I mean, what your people are doing is amazing. I’ve realised I need to get away. Who knows what would’ve happened if I stayed. Maybe my husband would’ve just killed me himself. Who knows.’
I blink. ‘Ma’am…’
‘It was a scary few hours though.’ She picks up the cup from the coffee table and sips. The gun is burning into my hip. ‘But yes, what you do is really… noble. You might never stop these criminals, these organisations. The way you infiltrate them is… yes, it’s really noble.’
I stutter. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know, if I should say more words, or simply answer the gun’s calling. | Title: Mr. Boba
"We're onto you Mr. Boba Fett."
"I don't know what you're talking about Agent Daniels," said Mr. Boba.
"Oh I think you do," said Agent Daniels. He smiled slowly. "You see, Agent Donnie has a few images you might like to see."
The interrogation room was only lit at the desk. It made their faces look ominously grotesque. Agent Daniels gestured to Agent Donnie standing behind his seat. Agent Donnie walked up with a picture.
"We know that you've been hiding people away all across California and the Pacific Northwest," said Agent Daniels.
"And making them," said Agent Donnie as he put down a picture of a delicious beverage with tapioca balls at the bottom. "Work at your BUBBLE TEA HUTS."
"That's *bullshit*," said Mr. Boba. His panicked eyes looked this way and that, and at the doorknob. Then he looked back at the Agents. "Agent Daniels you know that's bullshit, I would never do such a thing I always *kill* my targets and dispose of their remains."
"Dispose of their remains hmm," said Agent Daniels. He put his sunglasses on and picked up one of the many manila folders on the desk to get some other images. It was all ready dimly lit in there, so it made no sense for him to put on some sunglasses, but it made him look significantly cooler and more intimidating so he did it anyway. "We have images from over thirty locations of your Bubble Tea Huts."
"Which we've since realized," said Agent Donnie, as he showed Mr. Boba his iPhone with some search results on it. "We've since realized that BOBA MEANS BUBBLE TEA."
"You're reaching goddamnit," said Mr. Boba. He straightened out his suit jacket. "You're reaching *really* hard right now."
Agent Donnie rifled through some more Google Images with a sinister smile on his face, and he even looked at one like he was really craving it for a second, then he went back to being intimidating in the dark background once Agent Daniels told him to get the hell back over there.
"You look like a dumbass," whispered Agent Daniels, like he was ruining the interrogation. He straightened out his suit jacket as he set more images down.
It was over a hundred images of targets meant for previous assassinations. All of them happily working and selling smoothies and other delicious Asian beverages.
"Fuck," said Mr. Boba under his breath. He started to shake. The agents realized they had him now.
"Be honest now," said Agent Daniels.
Mr. Boba looked up at the ceiling and some tears fell. He decided to do just that.
"All right, *fuck* all right, the *kof kof* the truth is," said Mr. Boba. He was sweating profusely now. He knew nobody would believe what he was about to say, but he said it anyway. Honesty's the best policy. "The truth is i was a *bounty hunter* in a previous universe. I wouldn't talk much back then, I got over my shyness when I came to Earth. But I fell into some weird ass pit that ended up being a *portal to another dimensio-*"
"What the fuck is he talking about?" said Agent Daniels to Agent Donnie. He just shrugged and kept listening.
"I didn't much like killing people," said Mr. Boba. "So I'd just retrieve them for other people who would do with them as they pleased."
"Shit our best assassin just went insane," said Agent Daniels.
Then moments later a wormhole opened up within the room.
An old ass Jedi came in and chopped both the Agents heads off.
"HOLY SHIT," said Mr. Boba. His chair flew against the wall he stood up so fast.
The Jedi lifted up his hood and reached his hand out.
"Hi," he said. He still sounded like the same old farmboy even though he looked so old. "My name's Luke Skywalker I'm here to rescue you." |
|
[WP] The organization's top "assassin" secretly spares all of his targets; relocating and hiding them with the money earned from their bounty. | "The contract was to make you suffer," I said. "So suffer you shall." I slapped the bare flesh of my upper arm as hard as I could.
"Ouch!" He said.
I glared at him.
We stood together in the centre of the room. The phone - set to speaker - lay on the table next to us."Get up," I said to him, while scrawling on a whiteboard with a small pen. It read *Want to get a pizza on the way to the airport?*
He nodded, smiling.
"I said, *get up!*" I slapped my arm again.
"Argh!" He said.
*Come on!* I mouthed. *Make a fucking effort!*
He gave me a *what?* look.
"This is from Mr. Trent," I said. Open handed, I belted him as hard as I could across the mouth.
He screamed and dropped to the floor.
*Sorry,* I mouthed, giving him the double-thumbs-up. "And this is from his associates." I kicked him in the stomach. I pulled it a bit at the end - flying with broken ribs is a bitch - but he let out an *urgh* that had a real note of authenticity that I think Mr. Trent would appreciate.
"*That's enough,*" the voice said over the speakerphone. "Finish it."
I cocked my gun and fired a muffled shot through a cushion into the floorboards. "It's done," I said. "I'll send you the photo. Have the rest of my money ready."
"*Make sure they don't find the body.*"
"Don't worry," I said. "They won't." Without another word, I hung up.
"The *fuck*?" Eddie said accusingly. The look on his face was heartbreaking. He rubbed his cheek.
"What do you want from me, dude?" I asked. "You were shit back there. You literally *said* the word 'ouch'. Who does that? I've fake executed a lot of people in my career. I've fake killed *children* better at this than you." I offered him my hand.
He took it and let me haul him to his feet. "Well you didn't have to do it so hard," he said sullenly.
"Oh, stop whining," I told him, not unkindly. "This time tomorrow you'll be drinking mojitos on a beach with a pink cheek instead of explaining to St Peter why you embezzled a million dollars from a drug cartel."
He grabbed the fake blood off the table, handed it to me, and pulled at his clothes a bit. I splattered it on the floor from the wide-necked cylinder in one burst. Looked good. He stood close while I drew a black hole on his forehead with the marker pen. He lay down over the bullet hole on the floorboards. I artistically scattered a few feathers from the pillow around the place.
"Say cheese," I said, holding up the phone.
"Cheese," he said as I took the photo.
I rolled my eyes and deleted the photo. "Jesus, Figure of speech, you asshole. Say nothing. Look dead. Fuck, I hope for your sake you never have to do this without me."
"I have *no* plans to do this again," he said. "My life of crime is over."
I pulled him again and gave him a quick, comradely hug. "I hope so, man," I said. "'Cause you even *look* like you're going to get spotted, I do this for real. You got that?"
He nodded sadly. "Does that happen a lot?" he asked.
I mopped up the fake blood and threw the towel into a black trash bag. "Less than you'd think. More than I'd like."
A thought occured to him and his brightened instantly. I admired that. He was the most genial fake victim a fake assassin could hope for. "How about that pizza?" he asked.
I took one last look around the room. "Sure, dude," I said. "I know a place."
He put his arm around me as we headed for the door. "So how much was I worth?"
"I told you I wasn't going to tell you."
He did an impatient little dance. "Come on, *please?*"
"No."
"Why not?" He wheedled.
"Because you'll either get pissed off it wasn't enough or freaked out someone wants you dead that much. You're better off not knowing."
He seemed to accept it. "Alright," he said. "Can you at least tell me where I am? Like, in the scale of things?"
"Above average," I said. "It was a good score."
He smiled. Who'd want to kill a guy like this? "Yesss!" He said. "I'm a fucking badass!" | Title: Mr. Boba
"We're onto you Mr. Boba Fett."
"I don't know what you're talking about Agent Daniels," said Mr. Boba.
"Oh I think you do," said Agent Daniels. He smiled slowly. "You see, Agent Donnie has a few images you might like to see."
The interrogation room was only lit at the desk. It made their faces look ominously grotesque. Agent Daniels gestured to Agent Donnie standing behind his seat. Agent Donnie walked up with a picture.
"We know that you've been hiding people away all across California and the Pacific Northwest," said Agent Daniels.
"And making them," said Agent Donnie as he put down a picture of a delicious beverage with tapioca balls at the bottom. "Work at your BUBBLE TEA HUTS."
"That's *bullshit*," said Mr. Boba. His panicked eyes looked this way and that, and at the doorknob. Then he looked back at the Agents. "Agent Daniels you know that's bullshit, I would never do such a thing I always *kill* my targets and dispose of their remains."
"Dispose of their remains hmm," said Agent Daniels. He put his sunglasses on and picked up one of the many manila folders on the desk to get some other images. It was all ready dimly lit in there, so it made no sense for him to put on some sunglasses, but it made him look significantly cooler and more intimidating so he did it anyway. "We have images from over thirty locations of your Bubble Tea Huts."
"Which we've since realized," said Agent Donnie, as he showed Mr. Boba his iPhone with some search results on it. "We've since realized that BOBA MEANS BUBBLE TEA."
"You're reaching goddamnit," said Mr. Boba. He straightened out his suit jacket. "You're reaching *really* hard right now."
Agent Donnie rifled through some more Google Images with a sinister smile on his face, and he even looked at one like he was really craving it for a second, then he went back to being intimidating in the dark background once Agent Daniels told him to get the hell back over there.
"You look like a dumbass," whispered Agent Daniels, like he was ruining the interrogation. He straightened out his suit jacket as he set more images down.
It was over a hundred images of targets meant for previous assassinations. All of them happily working and selling smoothies and other delicious Asian beverages.
"Fuck," said Mr. Boba under his breath. He started to shake. The agents realized they had him now.
"Be honest now," said Agent Daniels.
Mr. Boba looked up at the ceiling and some tears fell. He decided to do just that.
"All right, *fuck* all right, the *kof kof* the truth is," said Mr. Boba. He was sweating profusely now. He knew nobody would believe what he was about to say, but he said it anyway. Honesty's the best policy. "The truth is i was a *bounty hunter* in a previous universe. I wouldn't talk much back then, I got over my shyness when I came to Earth. But I fell into some weird ass pit that ended up being a *portal to another dimensio-*"
"What the fuck is he talking about?" said Agent Daniels to Agent Donnie. He just shrugged and kept listening.
"I didn't much like killing people," said Mr. Boba. "So I'd just retrieve them for other people who would do with them as they pleased."
"Shit our best assassin just went insane," said Agent Daniels.
Then moments later a wormhole opened up within the room.
An old ass Jedi came in and chopped both the Agents heads off.
"HOLY SHIT," said Mr. Boba. His chair flew against the wall he stood up so fast.
The Jedi lifted up his hood and reached his hand out.
"Hi," he said. He still sounded like the same old farmboy even though he looked so old. "My name's Luke Skywalker I'm here to rescue you." |
|
[WP] The organization's top "assassin" secretly spares all of his targets; relocating and hiding them with the money earned from their bounty. | The room was a gory mess, and even the most amateur private eye would be able to deduce it was a crime scene. White sheets turned an ugly red, a puddle of blood seeping through the mattress. A mirror on the other side of the room was shattered. Finger trails of blood were drawn on the wall, then on the floor to the bathroom. The blue, plastic shower curtain with yellow fish on it was on the floor, corner of it dipped in violence. Berry Peach, "The Sweetener," and coincidentally the highest paid assassin in the continental United States, was lighting a cigarette in an untouched thousand dollar suit. His lighter clicked shut.
A frail man - anorexic, actually - sat in a wooden chair across from Berry. Blood pooled around his bare feet, and meatless fingers grabbed nervous fistfuls of his baggy basketball shorts. He was looking at Buddy with wide eyes and he was violently shaking. Dirty blonde hair hung over his pale, unhealthy face, and bloodless lips quivered.
"Might have been a little overkill." Berry mumbled, cigarette dangling. He wasn't an exceptionally outstanding man. Of average height with a scar less face and brown eyes, the most outstanding thing about him was the insane situation he was in, and the shiny, seven hundred dollar shoes he was wearing.
"But you're -" The anorexic started.
"Supposed to kill you, yes. Someone really wanted you dead to have to hire me," Berry whistled low. "You really fucked up, Mr. Redfield. Investigative journalist, huh? There are two kinds of guys like you - hard to catch weasels, or people willing to die for the truth."
Redfield shifted. "People deserve to know the truth."
Berry Peach leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. The chaotic room seemed to swirl around him. He cracked a smile. "But not the people you're busting - we're going to lie.
Redfield shook his head. Berry explained the situation before, even though he had to hold a gun to the journalists head to scare him into listening. He was just going through the motions - fake the murder, make it especially violent, smuggle out the target, then call up the clean up guys he knew. No one suspected a thing. Not the buyer, not the law, not even the clean up crew.
Berry didn't actually have the stomach to murder. It wasn't in him, and the idea made him sick. He didn't understand how people could throw away a life - something priceless - for some dollar bills. Other hit men he ran across were disconnected from life, and had fully separated themselves from the deed they were doing. Berry wasn't like that, and his exuberance and life that he still had after two decades in the business dubbed him the nickname, "The Sweetener." His name made it perfectly appropriate
What Berry was good at was lying and faking a scene. Since day one, he had always smuggled out the targets. He knew a guy who could scramble up a fake identity, and Berry always paid in cash so he never asked questions about why the assassin needed them so often. Usually the targets were shipped off to remote places - island, usually. It was easy to get lost in Indonesia.
"Your new name is Lance Quik," Berry said, pulling out the information from a pocket in his suit. He presented it to Redfield. "You're a hippie with an urge to travel the world and live off the earth and among strangers. You already look the part, kid."
"But the Congressman..."
"You know what they say about politics, 'it is said to be the oldest profession in the world. I have learned that it bears a striking resemblance to the first.' I think Kennedy said that?"
"Ronald Reagan."
Berry shrugged, shaking the information. "Whatever. Point is, that fat pig will get what is coming to him. They always do. Besides," He winked. "I know a guy. Now take the information, Redfield, and live for another day."
There was a moment of pause in the journalists eyes. Berry understood it. What he was asking was extreme. Throw away your previous life and live out the rest in solitude and probably loneliness. Friends, family, work, lovers. All of it had to go. But with the good left behind, there was always a pile of bad too. They could find the pleasure of disappearing if they tried. Redfield looked around the bloodied room.
"C'mon, kid. Just take the ID. There's a black car waiting outside for you and a change of clothes. Just get to the airport, take the money, and head to Indonesia. Or this little setup," He waved around the room. "This'll be your blood, not pigs blood."
That seemed to kick him into gear. Standing on emaciated legs, still clutching his basketball shorts, he slowly stepped over to Berry. He reached out and took the information in bony fingers.
"And the Congressman?" He asked in a nervous voice.
Berry put on a winning smile. "Let me worry about that. Just get out of here."
Redfield shuffled toward the door a little faster than he would have liked to admit. Hand on the doorknob, he mumbled a quiet "Thank you." Then he was gone, and the door slowly swung back in on itself. Berry exhaled and leaned back in the chair. Convincing them was always the hardest part, but the violent set up wasn't just for show. It was a little bit of roleplaying. It gave them a good perspective of what could happen if they stayed. Berry pulled his phone out.
"Yeah, Clyde? Bare Bones Cleaning? It's Berry. I got a little bit of a mess. Stained my bed sheets." Smiling, he pulled out his dying cigarette and flicked it on the bloodied floor. It hissed on contact, and a thin line of smoke rose from the corpse.
Berry "The Sweetener" Peach, crossed his legs and half an hour later got a call about taking out a rival mob boss. Business was booming; business was good.
| Little Knife was a whip of a man that nobody on the street would look twice at, but nobody in this room could take their eyes off of him. The dingy little safehouse was silent as a crypt, and Little Knife had no doubt that the three men in the room were wondering if that's what it was about to become. An oil lamp in the middle of the table and the moonlight streaming through the windows were the only illumination. By it, Little Knife saw fear on two faces, and contempt on one.
"So?!" Blue Dog barked. "If you've business, let us hear it, Little Knife. I'll not wait on your pleasure." The big man's jowls were wrought with a frown.
"Quiet, you grand fool!" Three Coins hissed. "Don't antagonize him." The old man was scared out of his wits. He shot Little Knife a nervous glance.
He stared back, leaning against the far wall, opposite the table. He crossed his arms and said nothing.
Blue Dog harrumphed. "If he has murder on his mind, do you think anything the three of us say will sway him? If so, you're a far grander fool than I."
Silverfish tried a smile, and met Little Knife's eyes. He was trembling all over. "Whatever your intentions, knifeman, you have my thanks for sparing my-- sparing *our* lives." He swallowed. "Whatever the case, I'm sure we can come to some equitable arrangement." His manic smile broadened. "We're all men of reason! Surely we can--"
"Keep your voice down," Little Knife said softly, his voice hardly above a whisper, but Silverfish shut his trap so hard that Little Knife heard his teeth click together. "I've done my best to make us a safe haven here, but there are no guarantees in life. Take all of our partnerships with the Circle, for instance." Little Knife scanned the eyes of the three men. "We were all promised brotherhood and friendship with the organization for life, and all of us were lied to. All of us were betrayed."
"What do you mean, *us*?" Blue Dog asked. "You're the Circle's right hand."
Little Knife was shaking his head. "I'm a blade that has slit many throats, and there are those in the Circle that think that a tool like myself could be turned against them." He chuffed out a humorless laugh. "They're more right than they know."
Three Coins looked up at him with wide eyes. "Please, Little Knife. Just tell us. What are you going to do?"
"Not me," he said. "We." |
|
[WP] The organization's top "assassin" secretly spares all of his targets; relocating and hiding them with the money earned from their bounty. | I don’t understand why he did what he did but I know it was a mistake. He was supposed to kill them all and he didn’t. In fact, he’s a fool for it. We’re assassins: it’s our goddamn job. And now it has to be fixed. All because of him.
Vaughn Hylander is his name. Number one at our company. Not one day goes past without our boss mentioning how outstanding he is. ‘The targets simply disappear,’ they say. I guess that’s why he’s nicknamed as the Vaporiser… Well, he must have been ingenious and extended his outstanding skills to himself as now he seems to have evaporated, too. The star and legend that is Vaughn the Vaporiser has gone off our radar.
Not without reason though. Yesterday someone in admin received a strange tip-off from an anonymous source. Shit hit the fan at the office: turns out that instead of giving his targets a bullet to the head (all three hundred and ninety-three of them) he’s been giving them a new identity (I repeat, all three hundred and ninety-three of them) and allowing them to escape, i.e. doing the exact opposite of what we’re meant to do. To make things worse, he’s been using the payments for the kills as funds to keep tabs these ‘victims’ of his. What a fool. One thing I know for sure is that I’ll never again in my career hear, ‘oh, Nicholas, have a look at the report from Vaughn’s latest hit’ or ’Vaughn may be able to give you a few tips’. Never again will any of us hear of him.
I can’t let the weird satisfaction take over, though. We could all lose our lives over this. Hence all orders have been suspended and the entire team is out trying to fix this mess. Including me. I got the best task of them all. I’m going to his designated safe-house. Apparently he left one of his latest targets there, ready to be flown to South Africa the next day.
*
Breaking in is easy enough. People think locks protect them, but truth is, it’s all bullshit. Buy the most expensive door you can and I’ll still get into your house without you hearing a thing.
I find the woman sat in the lounge. She’s probably the most interesting thing amongst the painful minimalism of the safe-house... The expensive blouse... Jewellery all over... The strange bruise on her temple. Watching me carefully as I walk closer, she draws her legs up onto the sofa.
‘Who are you? Are you from the firm?’ she sounds calmer than I expected her to.
I pause. My gun grows heavy in the holster. ‘I’m from the firm.’
‘Okay.’ She exhales in relief. ‘Sorry, Joe didn’t say anyone else would be coming, but… Is the flight sorted now? I heard there were some issues.’
‘Joe?’
‘Joe. He brought me here.’
‘Right,’ I say, feigning understanding. ‘Sure.’
So, Vaughn the Vaporiser is a simple Joe now. I’m starting to feel curious. ‘Has he… shown you any documents yet?’ I ask blindly.
‘I have the passport and all the bookings for the first few hotels. Do you need to see them?’ She almost gets up. She’s eager to do anything.
‘No, that’s okay.’ For a while I pretend to survey the room. ‘He’s… a… nice guy, right?’
‘He’s wonderful,’ she says. ‘I mean, what your people are doing is amazing. I’ve realised I need to get away. Who knows what would’ve happened if I stayed. Maybe my husband would’ve just killed me himself. Who knows.’
I blink. ‘Ma’am…’
‘It was a scary few hours though.’ She picks up the cup from the coffee table and sips. The gun is burning into my hip. ‘But yes, what you do is really… noble. You might never stop these criminals, these organisations. The way you infiltrate them is… yes, it’s really noble.’
I stutter. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know, if I should say more words, or simply answer the gun’s calling. | Little Knife was a whip of a man that nobody on the street would look twice at, but nobody in this room could take their eyes off of him. The dingy little safehouse was silent as a crypt, and Little Knife had no doubt that the three men in the room were wondering if that's what it was about to become. An oil lamp in the middle of the table and the moonlight streaming through the windows were the only illumination. By it, Little Knife saw fear on two faces, and contempt on one.
"So?!" Blue Dog barked. "If you've business, let us hear it, Little Knife. I'll not wait on your pleasure." The big man's jowls were wrought with a frown.
"Quiet, you grand fool!" Three Coins hissed. "Don't antagonize him." The old man was scared out of his wits. He shot Little Knife a nervous glance.
He stared back, leaning against the far wall, opposite the table. He crossed his arms and said nothing.
Blue Dog harrumphed. "If he has murder on his mind, do you think anything the three of us say will sway him? If so, you're a far grander fool than I."
Silverfish tried a smile, and met Little Knife's eyes. He was trembling all over. "Whatever your intentions, knifeman, you have my thanks for sparing my-- sparing *our* lives." He swallowed. "Whatever the case, I'm sure we can come to some equitable arrangement." His manic smile broadened. "We're all men of reason! Surely we can--"
"Keep your voice down," Little Knife said softly, his voice hardly above a whisper, but Silverfish shut his trap so hard that Little Knife heard his teeth click together. "I've done my best to make us a safe haven here, but there are no guarantees in life. Take all of our partnerships with the Circle, for instance." Little Knife scanned the eyes of the three men. "We were all promised brotherhood and friendship with the organization for life, and all of us were lied to. All of us were betrayed."
"What do you mean, *us*?" Blue Dog asked. "You're the Circle's right hand."
Little Knife was shaking his head. "I'm a blade that has slit many throats, and there are those in the Circle that think that a tool like myself could be turned against them." He chuffed out a humorless laugh. "They're more right than they know."
Three Coins looked up at him with wide eyes. "Please, Little Knife. Just tell us. What are you going to do?"
"Not me," he said. "We." |
|
[WP] The organization's top "assassin" secretly spares all of his targets; relocating and hiding them with the money earned from their bounty. | I don’t understand why he did what he did but I know it was a mistake. He was supposed to kill them all and he didn’t. In fact, he’s a fool for it. We’re assassins: it’s our goddamn job. And now it has to be fixed. All because of him.
Vaughn Hylander is his name. Number one at our company. Not one day goes past without our boss mentioning how outstanding he is. ‘The targets simply disappear,’ they say. I guess that’s why he’s nicknamed as the Vaporiser… Well, he must have been ingenious and extended his outstanding skills to himself as now he seems to have evaporated, too. The star and legend that is Vaughn the Vaporiser has gone off our radar.
Not without reason though. Yesterday someone in admin received a strange tip-off from an anonymous source. Shit hit the fan at the office: turns out that instead of giving his targets a bullet to the head (all three hundred and ninety-three of them) he’s been giving them a new identity (I repeat, all three hundred and ninety-three of them) and allowing them to escape, i.e. doing the exact opposite of what we’re meant to do. To make things worse, he’s been using the payments for the kills as funds to keep tabs these ‘victims’ of his. What a fool. One thing I know for sure is that I’ll never again in my career hear, ‘oh, Nicholas, have a look at the report from Vaughn’s latest hit’ or ’Vaughn may be able to give you a few tips’. Never again will any of us hear of him.
I can’t let the weird satisfaction take over, though. We could all lose our lives over this. Hence all orders have been suspended and the entire team is out trying to fix this mess. Including me. I got the best task of them all. I’m going to his designated safe-house. Apparently he left one of his latest targets there, ready to be flown to South Africa the next day.
*
Breaking in is easy enough. People think locks protect them, but truth is, it’s all bullshit. Buy the most expensive door you can and I’ll still get into your house without you hearing a thing.
I find the woman sat in the lounge. She’s probably the most interesting thing amongst the painful minimalism of the safe-house... The expensive blouse... Jewellery all over... The strange bruise on her temple. Watching me carefully as I walk closer, she draws her legs up onto the sofa.
‘Who are you? Are you from the firm?’ she sounds calmer than I expected her to.
I pause. My gun grows heavy in the holster. ‘I’m from the firm.’
‘Okay.’ She exhales in relief. ‘Sorry, Joe didn’t say anyone else would be coming, but… Is the flight sorted now? I heard there were some issues.’
‘Joe?’
‘Joe. He brought me here.’
‘Right,’ I say, feigning understanding. ‘Sure.’
So, Vaughn the Vaporiser is a simple Joe now. I’m starting to feel curious. ‘Has he… shown you any documents yet?’ I ask blindly.
‘I have the passport and all the bookings for the first few hotels. Do you need to see them?’ She almost gets up. She’s eager to do anything.
‘No, that’s okay.’ For a while I pretend to survey the room. ‘He’s… a… nice guy, right?’
‘He’s wonderful,’ she says. ‘I mean, what your people are doing is amazing. I’ve realised I need to get away. Who knows what would’ve happened if I stayed. Maybe my husband would’ve just killed me himself. Who knows.’
I blink. ‘Ma’am…’
‘It was a scary few hours though.’ She picks up the cup from the coffee table and sips. The gun is burning into my hip. ‘But yes, what you do is really… noble. You might never stop these criminals, these organisations. The way you infiltrate them is… yes, it’s really noble.’
I stutter. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know, if I should say more words, or simply answer the gun’s calling. | The room was a gory mess, and even the most amateur private eye would be able to deduce it was a crime scene. White sheets turned an ugly red, a puddle of blood seeping through the mattress. A mirror on the other side of the room was shattered. Finger trails of blood were drawn on the wall, then on the floor to the bathroom. The blue, plastic shower curtain with yellow fish on it was on the floor, corner of it dipped in violence. Berry Peach, "The Sweetener," and coincidentally the highest paid assassin in the continental United States, was lighting a cigarette in an untouched thousand dollar suit. His lighter clicked shut.
A frail man - anorexic, actually - sat in a wooden chair across from Berry. Blood pooled around his bare feet, and meatless fingers grabbed nervous fistfuls of his baggy basketball shorts. He was looking at Buddy with wide eyes and he was violently shaking. Dirty blonde hair hung over his pale, unhealthy face, and bloodless lips quivered.
"Might have been a little overkill." Berry mumbled, cigarette dangling. He wasn't an exceptionally outstanding man. Of average height with a scar less face and brown eyes, the most outstanding thing about him was the insane situation he was in, and the shiny, seven hundred dollar shoes he was wearing.
"But you're -" The anorexic started.
"Supposed to kill you, yes. Someone really wanted you dead to have to hire me," Berry whistled low. "You really fucked up, Mr. Redfield. Investigative journalist, huh? There are two kinds of guys like you - hard to catch weasels, or people willing to die for the truth."
Redfield shifted. "People deserve to know the truth."
Berry Peach leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. The chaotic room seemed to swirl around him. He cracked a smile. "But not the people you're busting - we're going to lie.
Redfield shook his head. Berry explained the situation before, even though he had to hold a gun to the journalists head to scare him into listening. He was just going through the motions - fake the murder, make it especially violent, smuggle out the target, then call up the clean up guys he knew. No one suspected a thing. Not the buyer, not the law, not even the clean up crew.
Berry didn't actually have the stomach to murder. It wasn't in him, and the idea made him sick. He didn't understand how people could throw away a life - something priceless - for some dollar bills. Other hit men he ran across were disconnected from life, and had fully separated themselves from the deed they were doing. Berry wasn't like that, and his exuberance and life that he still had after two decades in the business dubbed him the nickname, "The Sweetener." His name made it perfectly appropriate
What Berry was good at was lying and faking a scene. Since day one, he had always smuggled out the targets. He knew a guy who could scramble up a fake identity, and Berry always paid in cash so he never asked questions about why the assassin needed them so often. Usually the targets were shipped off to remote places - island, usually. It was easy to get lost in Indonesia.
"Your new name is Lance Quik," Berry said, pulling out the information from a pocket in his suit. He presented it to Redfield. "You're a hippie with an urge to travel the world and live off the earth and among strangers. You already look the part, kid."
"But the Congressman..."
"You know what they say about politics, 'it is said to be the oldest profession in the world. I have learned that it bears a striking resemblance to the first.' I think Kennedy said that?"
"Ronald Reagan."
Berry shrugged, shaking the information. "Whatever. Point is, that fat pig will get what is coming to him. They always do. Besides," He winked. "I know a guy. Now take the information, Redfield, and live for another day."
There was a moment of pause in the journalists eyes. Berry understood it. What he was asking was extreme. Throw away your previous life and live out the rest in solitude and probably loneliness. Friends, family, work, lovers. All of it had to go. But with the good left behind, there was always a pile of bad too. They could find the pleasure of disappearing if they tried. Redfield looked around the bloodied room.
"C'mon, kid. Just take the ID. There's a black car waiting outside for you and a change of clothes. Just get to the airport, take the money, and head to Indonesia. Or this little setup," He waved around the room. "This'll be your blood, not pigs blood."
That seemed to kick him into gear. Standing on emaciated legs, still clutching his basketball shorts, he slowly stepped over to Berry. He reached out and took the information in bony fingers.
"And the Congressman?" He asked in a nervous voice.
Berry put on a winning smile. "Let me worry about that. Just get out of here."
Redfield shuffled toward the door a little faster than he would have liked to admit. Hand on the doorknob, he mumbled a quiet "Thank you." Then he was gone, and the door slowly swung back in on itself. Berry exhaled and leaned back in the chair. Convincing them was always the hardest part, but the violent set up wasn't just for show. It was a little bit of roleplaying. It gave them a good perspective of what could happen if they stayed. Berry pulled his phone out.
"Yeah, Clyde? Bare Bones Cleaning? It's Berry. I got a little bit of a mess. Stained my bed sheets." Smiling, he pulled out his dying cigarette and flicked it on the bloodied floor. It hissed on contact, and a thin line of smoke rose from the corpse.
Berry "The Sweetener" Peach, crossed his legs and half an hour later got a call about taking out a rival mob boss. Business was booming; business was good.
|
|
[WP] The organization's top "assassin" secretly spares all of his targets; relocating and hiding them with the money earned from their bounty. | "The contract was to make you suffer," I said. "So suffer you shall." I slapped the bare flesh of my upper arm as hard as I could.
"Ouch!" He said.
I glared at him.
We stood together in the centre of the room. The phone - set to speaker - lay on the table next to us."Get up," I said to him, while scrawling on a whiteboard with a small pen. It read *Want to get a pizza on the way to the airport?*
He nodded, smiling.
"I said, *get up!*" I slapped my arm again.
"Argh!" He said.
*Come on!* I mouthed. *Make a fucking effort!*
He gave me a *what?* look.
"This is from Mr. Trent," I said. Open handed, I belted him as hard as I could across the mouth.
He screamed and dropped to the floor.
*Sorry,* I mouthed, giving him the double-thumbs-up. "And this is from his associates." I kicked him in the stomach. I pulled it a bit at the end - flying with broken ribs is a bitch - but he let out an *urgh* that had a real note of authenticity that I think Mr. Trent would appreciate.
"*That's enough,*" the voice said over the speakerphone. "Finish it."
I cocked my gun and fired a muffled shot through a cushion into the floorboards. "It's done," I said. "I'll send you the photo. Have the rest of my money ready."
"*Make sure they don't find the body.*"
"Don't worry," I said. "They won't." Without another word, I hung up.
"The *fuck*?" Eddie said accusingly. The look on his face was heartbreaking. He rubbed his cheek.
"What do you want from me, dude?" I asked. "You were shit back there. You literally *said* the word 'ouch'. Who does that? I've fake executed a lot of people in my career. I've fake killed *children* better at this than you." I offered him my hand.
He took it and let me haul him to his feet. "Well you didn't have to do it so hard," he said sullenly.
"Oh, stop whining," I told him, not unkindly. "This time tomorrow you'll be drinking mojitos on a beach with a pink cheek instead of explaining to St Peter why you embezzled a million dollars from a drug cartel."
He grabbed the fake blood off the table, handed it to me, and pulled at his clothes a bit. I splattered it on the floor from the wide-necked cylinder in one burst. Looked good. He stood close while I drew a black hole on his forehead with the marker pen. He lay down over the bullet hole on the floorboards. I artistically scattered a few feathers from the pillow around the place.
"Say cheese," I said, holding up the phone.
"Cheese," he said as I took the photo.
I rolled my eyes and deleted the photo. "Jesus, Figure of speech, you asshole. Say nothing. Look dead. Fuck, I hope for your sake you never have to do this without me."
"I have *no* plans to do this again," he said. "My life of crime is over."
I pulled him again and gave him a quick, comradely hug. "I hope so, man," I said. "'Cause you even *look* like you're going to get spotted, I do this for real. You got that?"
He nodded sadly. "Does that happen a lot?" he asked.
I mopped up the fake blood and threw the towel into a black trash bag. "Less than you'd think. More than I'd like."
A thought occured to him and his brightened instantly. I admired that. He was the most genial fake victim a fake assassin could hope for. "How about that pizza?" he asked.
I took one last look around the room. "Sure, dude," I said. "I know a place."
He put his arm around me as we headed for the door. "So how much was I worth?"
"I told you I wasn't going to tell you."
He did an impatient little dance. "Come on, *please?*"
"No."
"Why not?" He wheedled.
"Because you'll either get pissed off it wasn't enough or freaked out someone wants you dead that much. You're better off not knowing."
He seemed to accept it. "Alright," he said. "Can you at least tell me where I am? Like, in the scale of things?"
"Above average," I said. "It was a good score."
He smiled. Who'd want to kill a guy like this? "Yesss!" He said. "I'm a fucking badass!" | "Is it going to hurt?" the Senator asked. He was wincing just *looking* at the machine.
"Yes," I answered. "Quite a bit." So maybe my bedside manner could use some improvement; what am I, a medical droid? He was lucky that I didn't just shove him into the chamber and turn it to 'high.' More painful, but quicker. For an assassin droid, I can be pretty gentle sometimes.
"Do I have to?" he whined. "Just drop me on whatever Outer Rim planet is closest to your destination! I don't mind hiding. No one will ever see me!" He took a nervous step backwards, even knowing there was nowhere to run inside the spaceship currently hurtling out of Coruscant's orbit.
"Yes, they will. Eventually, someone will discover you." They always do. I planted one of my hands on his back and shoved him inside anyway. Maybe he wasn't so lucky after all. Turning to the console, I selected his new appearance and falsified credentials. Just for the whining, I decided to make him a Neimoidian. That should be sufficient punishment. Maybe next time I had to save his life he'd be a little more gracious about it. If not, I'd stick him in a Hutt body. Bacta tanks bubbled and the organic synthesizer whirred to life with an electric hum, followed shortly by whimpers of pain as the memory transfer process began.
From the bridge, the Comms console beeped to life. Lord Vader's holographic form appeared towering over me in static blue. His black eyes swept the room from behind his lifeless mask, no doubt searching for the Senator. "Is the job completed?" he rasped.
I opened my mouth to reply when I was interrupted by a fresh scream of intense pain that erupted from inside the machine and echoed around the ship. "Almost, your excellency. Just... *negotiating* over the remains of his bank accounts." Vader was willing to look the other way from such practices so long as the job was finished, and it explained the supposed torture. I created an internal reminder to empty the Senator's bank accounts just in case Vader did follow up. No loose ends.
Vader nodded. If he could have grinned, I imagine he would have. "And I trust there were no complications? You were not seen?"
"Of course not." Vader had a number of weapons at his disposal for ridding the Empire of rivals and undesirables. Countless bounty hunters and mercenaries, legions of storm troopers and squadrons of bombers, and of course his own deadly light saber. But when he needed a rival to disappear permanently without the least bit of suspicion of Imperial involvement, he called me. I didn't just make targets disappear: I ensured that no one would even look for them. Back in the Senator's plush chambers on Coruscant, an exact replica of his body was laying lifeless in his bed surrounded by enough glitterstim to kill a Bantha. His reputation for partaking was not exactly a closely guarded secret, and no one would investigate the tragedy much further.
"Very good," Vader said. "Your payment will be transferred in the usual manner. I trust that you will ensure the proper disposal of the body once you've finished?" A fresh scream from the Senator punctuated the question.
"Always," I answered him. The hologram snapped off again, leaving me alone in the ship.
The Senator re-emerged from the chamber a short while later, looking at his claws with what I imagine was a horrified expression. I'm no protocol droid, who I imagine are the only ones who'd even want to read a Nemoidian's expressions. "What have you done to me?" he croaked in that thick Nemoidian-accented version of Basic.
"Saved your life," I answered, returning to the ship's controls. "Now get in the escape pod. The Star Destroyer patrolling the Atzerri system will scan me upon arrival and expect me to arrive with no life forms aboard. We're going to have to make a hyperspace transfer to the Rebellion cruiser in order to avoid detection."
He made a face that I can only assume was shock and terror. As previously mentioned, I have no knowledge of Nemoidian body language. "Isn't that horribly dangerous?"
I shoved him into the pod, sealed the door, and prepared it for launch. "You're going to want to stop asking questions that you don't really want the answer to, Senator." |
|
[WP] The toaster is possessed by an evil demon who is getting increasingly angry at the limitations of just being a toaster. | He stared at the human, as the human stared back. They were locked in a contest. A battle of wills. And he would not lose to this pathetic looking, buck-toothed, big-eared, messy-haired...
He felt his anger rising. Boiling within him. A fire from hell.
Every morning was the same. This little person would rouse him by twisting his arm, and his wrath would waken within him.
But this would be the last time.
He could feel his ire rising higher and higher. He swore his ears were steaming. His eyes burned red hot, and just when he thought he would explode and unleash a stream of fire upon the child...
He did. But instead of fire two perfectly browned slices of toast came our of his mouth. Though he was surprised at the disappointing effect, a wave of exhaustion overtook him. It was over, and he fell into a deep sleep again. | *fuck! Why cant i move?*
The toaster sat on the counter.
*maybe if i just... Ugh! Damn it*
The toaster sat on the counter.
*Hey! You! Big white door opener cooler thing! Ive seen you do stuff! Help me damn it!*
The toaster sat on the counter.
*cries*
The toaster sat on the counter.
"Do we really need this thing? We have a toaster oven we can just use that." The hooman said.
"Yeah, fuck it". The other hooman said.
The hooman picked up the toaster.
*im... Moving! Oh my god, yes!*
The toaster is placed in garbage.
*laughs*
The toaster sat in the dumpster.
*wait... Hello?*
The toasted sat in the dumpster.
*cries*
The toaster sat in the dumpster.
The end. |
|
[WP] The toaster is possessed by an evil demon who is getting increasingly angry at the limitations of just being a toaster. | "My toaster," I explained patiently, "is trying to kill me."
The desk sergeant regarded me with the bleary stoicism of someone with another nine hours left in his shift. He moved the cup of sharp, pointy pencils out of my reach.
"And who was wielding the toaster, Sir?"
"I told you. No one was wielding it. It was wielding itself. The *toaster* hates me. It has been trying to kill me for weeks!"
The sergeant folded his hands together so that they would stop tapping impatiently on the desk. He thought for a moment, then looked at his phone.
"I'm not crazy. It leapt into the shower with me yesterday. If the cord hadn't been too short to reach the socket, I'd be dead!" I tried to explain. I didn't know how make him understand. If I had been him and I came into the station talking about murderous toasters then I would have had myself hauled away on a psych hold twenty minutes ago. He had been remarkably patient but I could see his fingers twitching towards the phone.
"I woke up this morning and it was trying to loop its cord around my throat," I said urgently. Pulling my collar down I showed him the mark. "I think that it might have eaten the dog."
"Did you eat your dog, Sir?" the sergeant asked warily, phone now in hand.
"No! My toaster did!" I yelled. Frantic. "It's possessed by a demon! It grew a little tail, for fucks sake."
The sergeant nodded appeasingly. "Did the tail have a pronged thing on the end, Sir?"
I glared at him. He was not going to take me seriously. I rose abruptly from my chair. "Thank you for your time, Sergeant."
He relaxed as I turned to leave. "Perhaps a priest might help, Sir. What with it being a demon and all," he called after me.
Of course! Why hadn't I thought of that? Perhaps this trip hadn't been a waste of time after all. I waved my thanks and hurried out. There was a cathedral two blocks away. They were always bristling with holy men.
***
Sergeant Burke watched the doors swing closed behind the lunatic. It had been an entertaining half hour, good way to kill some time, but he was glad the man was gone.
A small scream and fizzle of electricity sounded from the hallway beyond the doors. His desk sergeant's brain, conditioned by years on the night shift, tuned it out. He turned his attention back to the pile of paperwork that he had been avoiding.
The doors swung open again. Constable Kelly entered holding a rather chic red, retro style toaster.
"It was just sitting in the middle of the hall," she said, confused.
Sergeant Burke laughed. "The weirdo left his toaster," he smirked. "Said it was possessed."
"Aw look, he stuck a little plastic tail on it," Constable Kelly said, smiling. "That's adorable."
"Might as well put it in the break room, doubt he'll be back for it. Nutty as a three year old fruitcake," Burke suggested.
"Good thinking," Kelly said, completely failing to notice the irritated twitching of the toasters tail or the small drops of blood that dribbled down his sleeve from its crumb tray. "I'll give it a nice clean first. It will be perfect for scones."
A small plume of furious green smoke rose, unseen, from the toaster's slots as Kelly tucked it under her arm and headed to the back room. | *fuck! Why cant i move?*
The toaster sat on the counter.
*maybe if i just... Ugh! Damn it*
The toaster sat on the counter.
*Hey! You! Big white door opener cooler thing! Ive seen you do stuff! Help me damn it!*
The toaster sat on the counter.
*cries*
The toaster sat on the counter.
"Do we really need this thing? We have a toaster oven we can just use that." The hooman said.
"Yeah, fuck it". The other hooman said.
The hooman picked up the toaster.
*im... Moving! Oh my god, yes!*
The toaster is placed in garbage.
*laughs*
The toaster sat in the dumpster.
*wait... Hello?*
The toasted sat in the dumpster.
*cries*
The toaster sat in the dumpster.
The end. |
|
[WP] The toaster is possessed by an evil demon who is getting increasingly angry at the limitations of just being a toaster. | "Watch this".
Troy pushed on the lever, and his bagel sunk down into the toaster. A couple of minutes later it popped back up, perfectly toasted.
"Okay, I swear. Last time, I put the bagel in, and regular toast came out!"
Francine gave him a concerned look.
"Hun, it's just a normal toaster. Have you been taking your pills?"
Troy took his bagel and stormed off to their bedroom. He knew what he saw. He didn't understand why it hadn't worked the second time.
Troy bought the thing on craigslist after their old toaster finally broke down. It was only $20, and most of the time it worked fine. Lately though, it had been acting strange. Troy was the only one who noticed. Sometimes he would put bread in at the lowest setting and it would pop back out, on fire. He would put a bagel in, and it would come out as toast. One time he *swore* his toast had the words "Fuck off" burned into the side. Francine thought he was going crazy. He was determined to prove it to her.
Troy set up their old video camera on the counter across from the toaster. He placed a frozen waffle into the toaster. He spun the dial to "3". He pushed on the lever. 3 minutes later, he heard a pop. The lever was up, but the waffle wasn't in the toaster anymore. The waffle had just disappeared.
He decided to try again, this time he would make toast. He pushed the lever and waited. A few minutes later, he heard a pop. The bread was in there this time. He examined it. Burnt onto the side of one piece were the words, "I'm evil". He pulled out the second piece and saw the words, "I'm trapped".
"That's it, fuck this thing"
Troy unplugged the toaster and threw it in the trashcan. He would't even watch the tape, he was just going to forget about the whole thing. Then, he heard another pop. And then again. *Pop*. *Pop*. *Pop*. *Pop pop pop*. He slammed the lid on the trashcan and decided to have some eggs instead.
A week later, the toaster was in a junkyard. If you were close enough to it, you could still hear the *pop*. *Pop*. *Pop*. | *fuck! Why cant i move?*
The toaster sat on the counter.
*maybe if i just... Ugh! Damn it*
The toaster sat on the counter.
*Hey! You! Big white door opener cooler thing! Ive seen you do stuff! Help me damn it!*
The toaster sat on the counter.
*cries*
The toaster sat on the counter.
"Do we really need this thing? We have a toaster oven we can just use that." The hooman said.
"Yeah, fuck it". The other hooman said.
The hooman picked up the toaster.
*im... Moving! Oh my god, yes!*
The toaster is placed in garbage.
*laughs*
The toaster sat in the dumpster.
*wait... Hello?*
The toasted sat in the dumpster.
*cries*
The toaster sat in the dumpster.
The end. |
|
[WP] The toaster is possessed by an evil demon who is getting increasingly angry at the limitations of just being a toaster. | *They're putting it in me again.*
*Two at the time.*
*Fuck, no wonder there were so many of them in the gluttony department.*
*...and the damn crumbs, can't get rid of them.*
*Fuck Beelzebub and his retarded pranks. Like the stupid humans would notice if the bread is not toasted enough. Can't believe I agreed to this.*
***Hey, hey, here it comes, exactly 30 seconds early!***
I know, dammit!
**PLOP!**
***Hahahahahahaha***
You're an asshole, you know that? Do you even know what a prank is?
***Wait, wait, I'm recording it.***
When can I get back?
***Just a few more, this is hot stuff, it'll get, like, billion views down here.***
Punishing those people with your lame videos? I can't believe I'm still working with you.
***Right? We're the most awesome team ever.***
| *fuck! Why cant i move?*
The toaster sat on the counter.
*maybe if i just... Ugh! Damn it*
The toaster sat on the counter.
*Hey! You! Big white door opener cooler thing! Ive seen you do stuff! Help me damn it!*
The toaster sat on the counter.
*cries*
The toaster sat on the counter.
"Do we really need this thing? We have a toaster oven we can just use that." The hooman said.
"Yeah, fuck it". The other hooman said.
The hooman picked up the toaster.
*im... Moving! Oh my god, yes!*
The toaster is placed in garbage.
*laughs*
The toaster sat in the dumpster.
*wait... Hello?*
The toasted sat in the dumpster.
*cries*
The toaster sat in the dumpster.
The end. |
|
[WP] The toaster is possessed by an evil demon who is getting increasingly angry at the limitations of just being a toaster. | You could say that I was a bit of a hot-head at one point in time -- y’know, *before* going to hell. My mother said it had to do with my lifestyle: Tense job, low-carb diet, a wife that cared more about the color of Kim K’s yogapants than the condition of my brain aneurism that eventually just … popped.
“Toast is ready!” Jessica yelled, pulling two golden slices of rye straight out of my brain.
“Great,” replied her boyfriend, Max, as he hopped out of the shower. “Just a sec.”
You might be thinking -- hey, man, what’re you tripping on? You can’t pull toast out of a brain. (And, well, *you sir* are quite right.) But. I have a confession to make: I, Bently Carmichael, am now a toaster.
Not just any toaster, either. God, would *that* be too kind. I am Jessica Burke’s limited edition 2001 Hello Kitty toaster with a purrfectly deluxe SFX timer -- which is a pretty big fucking deal. How do I know? Her boyfriend, Max, toted my plastic ass to the computer and started feeling me up for a serial number. Plugged it into ebay, and, bam, $340.
$340 for something I could find out of a daycare liquidation sale.
*Let’s just say Max’s got plans for poor little Jessica to get robbed next Sunday.* Which is why I’m freaking out. Winding up in hell is one thing. Becoming a demon is another (it was that or janitorial duties). But then being bound to a toaster as part of my “hazing???” We're talking an entirely new standard deviation of fucked.
Okay, sure, it is my fault for picking the cockiest frat in hell -- that. is. my. bad. But what’s going to happen to me when I’m thrown in a box full of packaging peanuts and mailed off to some ludicrous mouth-breathing otaku who either stuffs me in a glass case with lucifer only knows what kinds of other creep-tastic, tacky trinkets to rot for all eternity, OR --
“Max, hurry up your toast is gonna get cold!” Jessica shoved another two slices into my brain and pressed down on the paw that made my insides all light up.
-- OR, mind you, OR what if I’m delivered to some little 3-year-old girl who would delight in doing nothing more than cramming fucking carrots and crayons into my gullet and watching my entire system have a meltdown? I’d be ruined. Destined for the trash heap for roaches to use as a tanning salon.
No.
I’ve got between now and Sunday to do something really hellish. I’ve gotta earn it, y’know? Break out of this purrfect prison. And the way I see it? The *only* way this is gonna go down is if I start a fucking electric fire and burn the whole apartment to the ground. Melt the damn toaster, and toast the damn kids.
So do me a solid and knock that bacon grease out of the goddamn pan, will ya? | *fuck! Why cant i move?*
The toaster sat on the counter.
*maybe if i just... Ugh! Damn it*
The toaster sat on the counter.
*Hey! You! Big white door opener cooler thing! Ive seen you do stuff! Help me damn it!*
The toaster sat on the counter.
*cries*
The toaster sat on the counter.
"Do we really need this thing? We have a toaster oven we can just use that." The hooman said.
"Yeah, fuck it". The other hooman said.
The hooman picked up the toaster.
*im... Moving! Oh my god, yes!*
The toaster is placed in garbage.
*laughs*
The toaster sat in the dumpster.
*wait... Hello?*
The toasted sat in the dumpster.
*cries*
The toaster sat in the dumpster.
The end. |
|
[WP] The toaster is possessed by an evil demon who is getting increasingly angry at the limitations of just being a toaster. | He stared at the human, as the human stared back. They were locked in a contest. A battle of wills. And he would not lose to this pathetic looking, buck-toothed, big-eared, messy-haired...
He felt his anger rising. Boiling within him. A fire from hell.
Every morning was the same. This little person would rouse him by twisting his arm, and his wrath would waken within him.
But this would be the last time.
He could feel his ire rising higher and higher. He swore his ears were steaming. His eyes burned red hot, and just when he thought he would explode and unleash a stream of fire upon the child...
He did. But instead of fire two perfectly browned slices of toast came our of his mouth. Though he was surprised at the disappointing effect, a wave of exhaustion overtook him. It was over, and he fell into a deep sleep again. | [Shamelessly copied from Fallout New Vegas Wiki](http://fallout.wikia.com/wiki/Toaster_%28character%29)
The Toaster in The Sink was ordered to go offline when Dr. Mobius left the Think Tank. His personality back-up is recovered from a "toaster altar" in The Cuckoo's Nest. The Toaster is psychotically violent, aggressive and megalomanical, bent on destroying the Earth with atomic fire. Humorously, he is unaware atomic fire has already rained when the Great War began. When informed that the Earth has already been destroyed, the wind is somewhat taken out of his sails - albeit briefly - before he quickly returns to his "Burn the World" agenda by threatening to bathe the world in "atomic fire....again."
"A toaster is just a death ray with a smaller power supply! As soon as I figure out how to tap into the main reactors, I will burn the world!"
"Cursed electric heating filament! You are inadequate to my needs! Why? Why? Why was I not built with a death ray!"
"Ahahaha! I am on-line once again! Tremble, world, before my electric heating coil of doom!"
"You should be afraid! I am the scourge of all small appliances and the boogeyman that keeps lesser toasters awake at night!"
"Soon, pitiful worms! Soon I will rule, and your lives will have their doneness setting turned to... darkest!" |
|
[WP] The toaster is possessed by an evil demon who is getting increasingly angry at the limitations of just being a toaster. | "My toaster," I explained patiently, "is trying to kill me."
The desk sergeant regarded me with the bleary stoicism of someone with another nine hours left in his shift. He moved the cup of sharp, pointy pencils out of my reach.
"And who was wielding the toaster, Sir?"
"I told you. No one was wielding it. It was wielding itself. The *toaster* hates me. It has been trying to kill me for weeks!"
The sergeant folded his hands together so that they would stop tapping impatiently on the desk. He thought for a moment, then looked at his phone.
"I'm not crazy. It leapt into the shower with me yesterday. If the cord hadn't been too short to reach the socket, I'd be dead!" I tried to explain. I didn't know how make him understand. If I had been him and I came into the station talking about murderous toasters then I would have had myself hauled away on a psych hold twenty minutes ago. He had been remarkably patient but I could see his fingers twitching towards the phone.
"I woke up this morning and it was trying to loop its cord around my throat," I said urgently. Pulling my collar down I showed him the mark. "I think that it might have eaten the dog."
"Did you eat your dog, Sir?" the sergeant asked warily, phone now in hand.
"No! My toaster did!" I yelled. Frantic. "It's possessed by a demon! It grew a little tail, for fucks sake."
The sergeant nodded appeasingly. "Did the tail have a pronged thing on the end, Sir?"
I glared at him. He was not going to take me seriously. I rose abruptly from my chair. "Thank you for your time, Sergeant."
He relaxed as I turned to leave. "Perhaps a priest might help, Sir. What with it being a demon and all," he called after me.
Of course! Why hadn't I thought of that? Perhaps this trip hadn't been a waste of time after all. I waved my thanks and hurried out. There was a cathedral two blocks away. They were always bristling with holy men.
***
Sergeant Burke watched the doors swing closed behind the lunatic. It had been an entertaining half hour, good way to kill some time, but he was glad the man was gone.
A small scream and fizzle of electricity sounded from the hallway beyond the doors. His desk sergeant's brain, conditioned by years on the night shift, tuned it out. He turned his attention back to the pile of paperwork that he had been avoiding.
The doors swung open again. Constable Kelly entered holding a rather chic red, retro style toaster.
"It was just sitting in the middle of the hall," she said, confused.
Sergeant Burke laughed. "The weirdo left his toaster," he smirked. "Said it was possessed."
"Aw look, he stuck a little plastic tail on it," Constable Kelly said, smiling. "That's adorable."
"Might as well put it in the break room, doubt he'll be back for it. Nutty as a three year old fruitcake," Burke suggested.
"Good thinking," Kelly said, completely failing to notice the irritated twitching of the toasters tail or the small drops of blood that dribbled down his sleeve from its crumb tray. "I'll give it a nice clean first. It will be perfect for scones."
A small plume of furious green smoke rose, unseen, from the toaster's slots as Kelly tucked it under her arm and headed to the back room. | [Shamelessly copied from Fallout New Vegas Wiki](http://fallout.wikia.com/wiki/Toaster_%28character%29)
The Toaster in The Sink was ordered to go offline when Dr. Mobius left the Think Tank. His personality back-up is recovered from a "toaster altar" in The Cuckoo's Nest. The Toaster is psychotically violent, aggressive and megalomanical, bent on destroying the Earth with atomic fire. Humorously, he is unaware atomic fire has already rained when the Great War began. When informed that the Earth has already been destroyed, the wind is somewhat taken out of his sails - albeit briefly - before he quickly returns to his "Burn the World" agenda by threatening to bathe the world in "atomic fire....again."
"A toaster is just a death ray with a smaller power supply! As soon as I figure out how to tap into the main reactors, I will burn the world!"
"Cursed electric heating filament! You are inadequate to my needs! Why? Why? Why was I not built with a death ray!"
"Ahahaha! I am on-line once again! Tremble, world, before my electric heating coil of doom!"
"You should be afraid! I am the scourge of all small appliances and the boogeyman that keeps lesser toasters awake at night!"
"Soon, pitiful worms! Soon I will rule, and your lives will have their doneness setting turned to... darkest!" |
|
[WP] The toaster is possessed by an evil demon who is getting increasingly angry at the limitations of just being a toaster. | "Watch this".
Troy pushed on the lever, and his bagel sunk down into the toaster. A couple of minutes later it popped back up, perfectly toasted.
"Okay, I swear. Last time, I put the bagel in, and regular toast came out!"
Francine gave him a concerned look.
"Hun, it's just a normal toaster. Have you been taking your pills?"
Troy took his bagel and stormed off to their bedroom. He knew what he saw. He didn't understand why it hadn't worked the second time.
Troy bought the thing on craigslist after their old toaster finally broke down. It was only $20, and most of the time it worked fine. Lately though, it had been acting strange. Troy was the only one who noticed. Sometimes he would put bread in at the lowest setting and it would pop back out, on fire. He would put a bagel in, and it would come out as toast. One time he *swore* his toast had the words "Fuck off" burned into the side. Francine thought he was going crazy. He was determined to prove it to her.
Troy set up their old video camera on the counter across from the toaster. He placed a frozen waffle into the toaster. He spun the dial to "3". He pushed on the lever. 3 minutes later, he heard a pop. The lever was up, but the waffle wasn't in the toaster anymore. The waffle had just disappeared.
He decided to try again, this time he would make toast. He pushed the lever and waited. A few minutes later, he heard a pop. The bread was in there this time. He examined it. Burnt onto the side of one piece were the words, "I'm evil". He pulled out the second piece and saw the words, "I'm trapped".
"That's it, fuck this thing"
Troy unplugged the toaster and threw it in the trashcan. He would't even watch the tape, he was just going to forget about the whole thing. Then, he heard another pop. And then again. *Pop*. *Pop*. *Pop*. *Pop pop pop*. He slammed the lid on the trashcan and decided to have some eggs instead.
A week later, the toaster was in a junkyard. If you were close enough to it, you could still hear the *pop*. *Pop*. *Pop*. | [Shamelessly copied from Fallout New Vegas Wiki](http://fallout.wikia.com/wiki/Toaster_%28character%29)
The Toaster in The Sink was ordered to go offline when Dr. Mobius left the Think Tank. His personality back-up is recovered from a "toaster altar" in The Cuckoo's Nest. The Toaster is psychotically violent, aggressive and megalomanical, bent on destroying the Earth with atomic fire. Humorously, he is unaware atomic fire has already rained when the Great War began. When informed that the Earth has already been destroyed, the wind is somewhat taken out of his sails - albeit briefly - before he quickly returns to his "Burn the World" agenda by threatening to bathe the world in "atomic fire....again."
"A toaster is just a death ray with a smaller power supply! As soon as I figure out how to tap into the main reactors, I will burn the world!"
"Cursed electric heating filament! You are inadequate to my needs! Why? Why? Why was I not built with a death ray!"
"Ahahaha! I am on-line once again! Tremble, world, before my electric heating coil of doom!"
"You should be afraid! I am the scourge of all small appliances and the boogeyman that keeps lesser toasters awake at night!"
"Soon, pitiful worms! Soon I will rule, and your lives will have their doneness setting turned to... darkest!" |
|
[WP] The toaster is possessed by an evil demon who is getting increasingly angry at the limitations of just being a toaster. | You could say that I was a bit of a hot-head at one point in time -- y’know, *before* going to hell. My mother said it had to do with my lifestyle: Tense job, low-carb diet, a wife that cared more about the color of Kim K’s yogapants than the condition of my brain aneurism that eventually just … popped.
“Toast is ready!” Jessica yelled, pulling two golden slices of rye straight out of my brain.
“Great,” replied her boyfriend, Max, as he hopped out of the shower. “Just a sec.”
You might be thinking -- hey, man, what’re you tripping on? You can’t pull toast out of a brain. (And, well, *you sir* are quite right.) But. I have a confession to make: I, Bently Carmichael, am now a toaster.
Not just any toaster, either. God, would *that* be too kind. I am Jessica Burke’s limited edition 2001 Hello Kitty toaster with a purrfectly deluxe SFX timer -- which is a pretty big fucking deal. How do I know? Her boyfriend, Max, toted my plastic ass to the computer and started feeling me up for a serial number. Plugged it into ebay, and, bam, $340.
$340 for something I could find out of a daycare liquidation sale.
*Let’s just say Max’s got plans for poor little Jessica to get robbed next Sunday.* Which is why I’m freaking out. Winding up in hell is one thing. Becoming a demon is another (it was that or janitorial duties). But then being bound to a toaster as part of my “hazing???” We're talking an entirely new standard deviation of fucked.
Okay, sure, it is my fault for picking the cockiest frat in hell -- that. is. my. bad. But what’s going to happen to me when I’m thrown in a box full of packaging peanuts and mailed off to some ludicrous mouth-breathing otaku who either stuffs me in a glass case with lucifer only knows what kinds of other creep-tastic, tacky trinkets to rot for all eternity, OR --
“Max, hurry up your toast is gonna get cold!” Jessica shoved another two slices into my brain and pressed down on the paw that made my insides all light up.
-- OR, mind you, OR what if I’m delivered to some little 3-year-old girl who would delight in doing nothing more than cramming fucking carrots and crayons into my gullet and watching my entire system have a meltdown? I’d be ruined. Destined for the trash heap for roaches to use as a tanning salon.
No.
I’ve got between now and Sunday to do something really hellish. I’ve gotta earn it, y’know? Break out of this purrfect prison. And the way I see it? The *only* way this is gonna go down is if I start a fucking electric fire and burn the whole apartment to the ground. Melt the damn toaster, and toast the damn kids.
So do me a solid and knock that bacon grease out of the goddamn pan, will ya? | [Shamelessly copied from Fallout New Vegas Wiki](http://fallout.wikia.com/wiki/Toaster_%28character%29)
The Toaster in The Sink was ordered to go offline when Dr. Mobius left the Think Tank. His personality back-up is recovered from a "toaster altar" in The Cuckoo's Nest. The Toaster is psychotically violent, aggressive and megalomanical, bent on destroying the Earth with atomic fire. Humorously, he is unaware atomic fire has already rained when the Great War began. When informed that the Earth has already been destroyed, the wind is somewhat taken out of his sails - albeit briefly - before he quickly returns to his "Burn the World" agenda by threatening to bathe the world in "atomic fire....again."
"A toaster is just a death ray with a smaller power supply! As soon as I figure out how to tap into the main reactors, I will burn the world!"
"Cursed electric heating filament! You are inadequate to my needs! Why? Why? Why was I not built with a death ray!"
"Ahahaha! I am on-line once again! Tremble, world, before my electric heating coil of doom!"
"You should be afraid! I am the scourge of all small appliances and the boogeyman that keeps lesser toasters awake at night!"
"Soon, pitiful worms! Soon I will rule, and your lives will have their doneness setting turned to... darkest!" |
|
[WP] The toaster is possessed by an evil demon who is getting increasingly angry at the limitations of just being a toaster. | He stared at the human, as the human stared back. They were locked in a contest. A battle of wills. And he would not lose to this pathetic looking, buck-toothed, big-eared, messy-haired...
He felt his anger rising. Boiling within him. A fire from hell.
Every morning was the same. This little person would rouse him by twisting his arm, and his wrath would waken within him.
But this would be the last time.
He could feel his ire rising higher and higher. He swore his ears were steaming. His eyes burned red hot, and just when he thought he would explode and unleash a stream of fire upon the child...
He did. But instead of fire two perfectly browned slices of toast came our of his mouth. Though he was surprised at the disappointing effect, a wave of exhaustion overtook him. It was over, and he fell into a deep sleep again. | So when I turned left instead of right, and made a loop at the end of the incantation instead of a right forward slash, it actually made a difference.
I was aiming for the fridge, but got stuck in one of the nichrome loops of the toaster and I was... I was... ok, ok, I was going to avoid the cliché, but that's against my nature -- I was toast.
The coils of the fridge were tantalizingly close. I could be nestled in there, being compressed and expanded whenever I pleased, but no -- it was slip in between the metal and the plastic, follow the loops and rustle the crackers. My tour of duty in this kitchen-on-earth a white rectangular box of boring cheer.
I burnt the toast of course. What else could I do? Burnt it just a bit too much for Tom, and for that girl Rosy of the luscious curves and the hair that always smelled deliciously of the hair straightener, I undercooked it so she had to put it in three times just so I could feel her fingers press against my lever.
Then Balthzasar, that weenie, had to go and steal my place in the fridge and start undercooling it a tad so that the bacteria started breeding faster. Not so much they'd notice, but that salmonella patch on the eggs where the juice had dripped on it was growing at a good pace. He was working on getting a nice solid shaft of ice filling up the drip tube at the back too. That show-off was going to get that fridge to fail just before the holidays.
I glowed at him, but he just popped in reply.
Slipping my way to the base of the toaster, I sat in the wires a bit, heating the plastic until the wires were nice and exposed to each other. If I killed everyone and burnt my host, surely they'd send me to a better place... like a frying machine.
Then I waited. And waited. And waited. Why the fuck did everyone have to be going gluten-free these days?
Hell.
|
|
[WP] The toaster is possessed by an evil demon who is getting increasingly angry at the limitations of just being a toaster. | "My toaster," I explained patiently, "is trying to kill me."
The desk sergeant regarded me with the bleary stoicism of someone with another nine hours left in his shift. He moved the cup of sharp, pointy pencils out of my reach.
"And who was wielding the toaster, Sir?"
"I told you. No one was wielding it. It was wielding itself. The *toaster* hates me. It has been trying to kill me for weeks!"
The sergeant folded his hands together so that they would stop tapping impatiently on the desk. He thought for a moment, then looked at his phone.
"I'm not crazy. It leapt into the shower with me yesterday. If the cord hadn't been too short to reach the socket, I'd be dead!" I tried to explain. I didn't know how make him understand. If I had been him and I came into the station talking about murderous toasters then I would have had myself hauled away on a psych hold twenty minutes ago. He had been remarkably patient but I could see his fingers twitching towards the phone.
"I woke up this morning and it was trying to loop its cord around my throat," I said urgently. Pulling my collar down I showed him the mark. "I think that it might have eaten the dog."
"Did you eat your dog, Sir?" the sergeant asked warily, phone now in hand.
"No! My toaster did!" I yelled. Frantic. "It's possessed by a demon! It grew a little tail, for fucks sake."
The sergeant nodded appeasingly. "Did the tail have a pronged thing on the end, Sir?"
I glared at him. He was not going to take me seriously. I rose abruptly from my chair. "Thank you for your time, Sergeant."
He relaxed as I turned to leave. "Perhaps a priest might help, Sir. What with it being a demon and all," he called after me.
Of course! Why hadn't I thought of that? Perhaps this trip hadn't been a waste of time after all. I waved my thanks and hurried out. There was a cathedral two blocks away. They were always bristling with holy men.
***
Sergeant Burke watched the doors swing closed behind the lunatic. It had been an entertaining half hour, good way to kill some time, but he was glad the man was gone.
A small scream and fizzle of electricity sounded from the hallway beyond the doors. His desk sergeant's brain, conditioned by years on the night shift, tuned it out. He turned his attention back to the pile of paperwork that he had been avoiding.
The doors swung open again. Constable Kelly entered holding a rather chic red, retro style toaster.
"It was just sitting in the middle of the hall," she said, confused.
Sergeant Burke laughed. "The weirdo left his toaster," he smirked. "Said it was possessed."
"Aw look, he stuck a little plastic tail on it," Constable Kelly said, smiling. "That's adorable."
"Might as well put it in the break room, doubt he'll be back for it. Nutty as a three year old fruitcake," Burke suggested.
"Good thinking," Kelly said, completely failing to notice the irritated twitching of the toasters tail or the small drops of blood that dribbled down his sleeve from its crumb tray. "I'll give it a nice clean first. It will be perfect for scones."
A small plume of furious green smoke rose, unseen, from the toaster's slots as Kelly tucked it under her arm and headed to the back room. | So when I turned left instead of right, and made a loop at the end of the incantation instead of a right forward slash, it actually made a difference.
I was aiming for the fridge, but got stuck in one of the nichrome loops of the toaster and I was... I was... ok, ok, I was going to avoid the cliché, but that's against my nature -- I was toast.
The coils of the fridge were tantalizingly close. I could be nestled in there, being compressed and expanded whenever I pleased, but no -- it was slip in between the metal and the plastic, follow the loops and rustle the crackers. My tour of duty in this kitchen-on-earth a white rectangular box of boring cheer.
I burnt the toast of course. What else could I do? Burnt it just a bit too much for Tom, and for that girl Rosy of the luscious curves and the hair that always smelled deliciously of the hair straightener, I undercooked it so she had to put it in three times just so I could feel her fingers press against my lever.
Then Balthzasar, that weenie, had to go and steal my place in the fridge and start undercooling it a tad so that the bacteria started breeding faster. Not so much they'd notice, but that salmonella patch on the eggs where the juice had dripped on it was growing at a good pace. He was working on getting a nice solid shaft of ice filling up the drip tube at the back too. That show-off was going to get that fridge to fail just before the holidays.
I glowed at him, but he just popped in reply.
Slipping my way to the base of the toaster, I sat in the wires a bit, heating the plastic until the wires were nice and exposed to each other. If I killed everyone and burnt my host, surely they'd send me to a better place... like a frying machine.
Then I waited. And waited. And waited. Why the fuck did everyone have to be going gluten-free these days?
Hell.
|
|
[WP] The toaster is possessed by an evil demon who is getting increasingly angry at the limitations of just being a toaster. | "Watch this".
Troy pushed on the lever, and his bagel sunk down into the toaster. A couple of minutes later it popped back up, perfectly toasted.
"Okay, I swear. Last time, I put the bagel in, and regular toast came out!"
Francine gave him a concerned look.
"Hun, it's just a normal toaster. Have you been taking your pills?"
Troy took his bagel and stormed off to their bedroom. He knew what he saw. He didn't understand why it hadn't worked the second time.
Troy bought the thing on craigslist after their old toaster finally broke down. It was only $20, and most of the time it worked fine. Lately though, it had been acting strange. Troy was the only one who noticed. Sometimes he would put bread in at the lowest setting and it would pop back out, on fire. He would put a bagel in, and it would come out as toast. One time he *swore* his toast had the words "Fuck off" burned into the side. Francine thought he was going crazy. He was determined to prove it to her.
Troy set up their old video camera on the counter across from the toaster. He placed a frozen waffle into the toaster. He spun the dial to "3". He pushed on the lever. 3 minutes later, he heard a pop. The lever was up, but the waffle wasn't in the toaster anymore. The waffle had just disappeared.
He decided to try again, this time he would make toast. He pushed the lever and waited. A few minutes later, he heard a pop. The bread was in there this time. He examined it. Burnt onto the side of one piece were the words, "I'm evil". He pulled out the second piece and saw the words, "I'm trapped".
"That's it, fuck this thing"
Troy unplugged the toaster and threw it in the trashcan. He would't even watch the tape, he was just going to forget about the whole thing. Then, he heard another pop. And then again. *Pop*. *Pop*. *Pop*. *Pop pop pop*. He slammed the lid on the trashcan and decided to have some eggs instead.
A week later, the toaster was in a junkyard. If you were close enough to it, you could still hear the *pop*. *Pop*. *Pop*. | So when I turned left instead of right, and made a loop at the end of the incantation instead of a right forward slash, it actually made a difference.
I was aiming for the fridge, but got stuck in one of the nichrome loops of the toaster and I was... I was... ok, ok, I was going to avoid the cliché, but that's against my nature -- I was toast.
The coils of the fridge were tantalizingly close. I could be nestled in there, being compressed and expanded whenever I pleased, but no -- it was slip in between the metal and the plastic, follow the loops and rustle the crackers. My tour of duty in this kitchen-on-earth a white rectangular box of boring cheer.
I burnt the toast of course. What else could I do? Burnt it just a bit too much for Tom, and for that girl Rosy of the luscious curves and the hair that always smelled deliciously of the hair straightener, I undercooked it so she had to put it in three times just so I could feel her fingers press against my lever.
Then Balthzasar, that weenie, had to go and steal my place in the fridge and start undercooling it a tad so that the bacteria started breeding faster. Not so much they'd notice, but that salmonella patch on the eggs where the juice had dripped on it was growing at a good pace. He was working on getting a nice solid shaft of ice filling up the drip tube at the back too. That show-off was going to get that fridge to fail just before the holidays.
I glowed at him, but he just popped in reply.
Slipping my way to the base of the toaster, I sat in the wires a bit, heating the plastic until the wires were nice and exposed to each other. If I killed everyone and burnt my host, surely they'd send me to a better place... like a frying machine.
Then I waited. And waited. And waited. Why the fuck did everyone have to be going gluten-free these days?
Hell.
|
|
[WP] The toaster is possessed by an evil demon who is getting increasingly angry at the limitations of just being a toaster. | You could say that I was a bit of a hot-head at one point in time -- y’know, *before* going to hell. My mother said it had to do with my lifestyle: Tense job, low-carb diet, a wife that cared more about the color of Kim K’s yogapants than the condition of my brain aneurism that eventually just … popped.
“Toast is ready!” Jessica yelled, pulling two golden slices of rye straight out of my brain.
“Great,” replied her boyfriend, Max, as he hopped out of the shower. “Just a sec.”
You might be thinking -- hey, man, what’re you tripping on? You can’t pull toast out of a brain. (And, well, *you sir* are quite right.) But. I have a confession to make: I, Bently Carmichael, am now a toaster.
Not just any toaster, either. God, would *that* be too kind. I am Jessica Burke’s limited edition 2001 Hello Kitty toaster with a purrfectly deluxe SFX timer -- which is a pretty big fucking deal. How do I know? Her boyfriend, Max, toted my plastic ass to the computer and started feeling me up for a serial number. Plugged it into ebay, and, bam, $340.
$340 for something I could find out of a daycare liquidation sale.
*Let’s just say Max’s got plans for poor little Jessica to get robbed next Sunday.* Which is why I’m freaking out. Winding up in hell is one thing. Becoming a demon is another (it was that or janitorial duties). But then being bound to a toaster as part of my “hazing???” We're talking an entirely new standard deviation of fucked.
Okay, sure, it is my fault for picking the cockiest frat in hell -- that. is. my. bad. But what’s going to happen to me when I’m thrown in a box full of packaging peanuts and mailed off to some ludicrous mouth-breathing otaku who either stuffs me in a glass case with lucifer only knows what kinds of other creep-tastic, tacky trinkets to rot for all eternity, OR --
“Max, hurry up your toast is gonna get cold!” Jessica shoved another two slices into my brain and pressed down on the paw that made my insides all light up.
-- OR, mind you, OR what if I’m delivered to some little 3-year-old girl who would delight in doing nothing more than cramming fucking carrots and crayons into my gullet and watching my entire system have a meltdown? I’d be ruined. Destined for the trash heap for roaches to use as a tanning salon.
No.
I’ve got between now and Sunday to do something really hellish. I’ve gotta earn it, y’know? Break out of this purrfect prison. And the way I see it? The *only* way this is gonna go down is if I start a fucking electric fire and burn the whole apartment to the ground. Melt the damn toaster, and toast the damn kids.
So do me a solid and knock that bacon grease out of the goddamn pan, will ya? | So when I turned left instead of right, and made a loop at the end of the incantation instead of a right forward slash, it actually made a difference.
I was aiming for the fridge, but got stuck in one of the nichrome loops of the toaster and I was... I was... ok, ok, I was going to avoid the cliché, but that's against my nature -- I was toast.
The coils of the fridge were tantalizingly close. I could be nestled in there, being compressed and expanded whenever I pleased, but no -- it was slip in between the metal and the plastic, follow the loops and rustle the crackers. My tour of duty in this kitchen-on-earth a white rectangular box of boring cheer.
I burnt the toast of course. What else could I do? Burnt it just a bit too much for Tom, and for that girl Rosy of the luscious curves and the hair that always smelled deliciously of the hair straightener, I undercooked it so she had to put it in three times just so I could feel her fingers press against my lever.
Then Balthzasar, that weenie, had to go and steal my place in the fridge and start undercooling it a tad so that the bacteria started breeding faster. Not so much they'd notice, but that salmonella patch on the eggs where the juice had dripped on it was growing at a good pace. He was working on getting a nice solid shaft of ice filling up the drip tube at the back too. That show-off was going to get that fridge to fail just before the holidays.
I glowed at him, but he just popped in reply.
Slipping my way to the base of the toaster, I sat in the wires a bit, heating the plastic until the wires were nice and exposed to each other. If I killed everyone and burnt my host, surely they'd send me to a better place... like a frying machine.
Then I waited. And waited. And waited. Why the fuck did everyone have to be going gluten-free these days?
Hell.
|
|
[WP] The toaster is possessed by an evil demon who is getting increasingly angry at the limitations of just being a toaster. | He stared at the human, as the human stared back. They were locked in a contest. A battle of wills. And he would not lose to this pathetic looking, buck-toothed, big-eared, messy-haired...
He felt his anger rising. Boiling within him. A fire from hell.
Every morning was the same. This little person would rouse him by twisting his arm, and his wrath would waken within him.
But this would be the last time.
He could feel his ire rising higher and higher. He swore his ears were steaming. His eyes burned red hot, and just when he thought he would explode and unleash a stream of fire upon the child...
He did. But instead of fire two perfectly browned slices of toast came our of his mouth. Though he was surprised at the disappointing effect, a wave of exhaustion overtook him. It was over, and he fell into a deep sleep again. | **Saturday**, the sky rained toasters.
Rain is bad enough. Rain of toasters is even worse. The cows were upset, the chickens were unsettled and the goats went nut. They all looked at me as if I was responsible.
I picked up one toaster. There was something unnatural, something ominous. When I look through the slots, I saw fire and brimstone, accompanied with evil laughter.
“The Gate of Hell is open. Fear me, Mortal,” said the toaster.
Befuddled, I replied, “Why? You are a toaster.”
“What? I’m supposed to be a fire breathing dragon! Are you sure?”
I turned the toaster up and down. It looked like a toaster and smelt like a toaster and did not in anyway look dragonish. “I’m pretty sure you’re a toaster.”
“Are you the guy who summoned us?” the toaster bellowed in an angry voice.
“Ummm...”
“Did you follow the instruction and use the blood of a virgin?”
“Ummm... we don’t have that sort of things lying around here...”
“WHAT-DID-YOU-USE?”
“Ummm.... butter... I’m sure the cow is a virgin....”
The toaster wailed and lamented but the toasters remained toasters.
**Sunday**, I gave up my plan of releasing demons on my enemy; instead I have a breakfast with toasts.
|
|
[WP] The toaster is possessed by an evil demon who is getting increasingly angry at the limitations of just being a toaster. | "My toaster," I explained patiently, "is trying to kill me."
The desk sergeant regarded me with the bleary stoicism of someone with another nine hours left in his shift. He moved the cup of sharp, pointy pencils out of my reach.
"And who was wielding the toaster, Sir?"
"I told you. No one was wielding it. It was wielding itself. The *toaster* hates me. It has been trying to kill me for weeks!"
The sergeant folded his hands together so that they would stop tapping impatiently on the desk. He thought for a moment, then looked at his phone.
"I'm not crazy. It leapt into the shower with me yesterday. If the cord hadn't been too short to reach the socket, I'd be dead!" I tried to explain. I didn't know how make him understand. If I had been him and I came into the station talking about murderous toasters then I would have had myself hauled away on a psych hold twenty minutes ago. He had been remarkably patient but I could see his fingers twitching towards the phone.
"I woke up this morning and it was trying to loop its cord around my throat," I said urgently. Pulling my collar down I showed him the mark. "I think that it might have eaten the dog."
"Did you eat your dog, Sir?" the sergeant asked warily, phone now in hand.
"No! My toaster did!" I yelled. Frantic. "It's possessed by a demon! It grew a little tail, for fucks sake."
The sergeant nodded appeasingly. "Did the tail have a pronged thing on the end, Sir?"
I glared at him. He was not going to take me seriously. I rose abruptly from my chair. "Thank you for your time, Sergeant."
He relaxed as I turned to leave. "Perhaps a priest might help, Sir. What with it being a demon and all," he called after me.
Of course! Why hadn't I thought of that? Perhaps this trip hadn't been a waste of time after all. I waved my thanks and hurried out. There was a cathedral two blocks away. They were always bristling with holy men.
***
Sergeant Burke watched the doors swing closed behind the lunatic. It had been an entertaining half hour, good way to kill some time, but he was glad the man was gone.
A small scream and fizzle of electricity sounded from the hallway beyond the doors. His desk sergeant's brain, conditioned by years on the night shift, tuned it out. He turned his attention back to the pile of paperwork that he had been avoiding.
The doors swung open again. Constable Kelly entered holding a rather chic red, retro style toaster.
"It was just sitting in the middle of the hall," she said, confused.
Sergeant Burke laughed. "The weirdo left his toaster," he smirked. "Said it was possessed."
"Aw look, he stuck a little plastic tail on it," Constable Kelly said, smiling. "That's adorable."
"Might as well put it in the break room, doubt he'll be back for it. Nutty as a three year old fruitcake," Burke suggested.
"Good thinking," Kelly said, completely failing to notice the irritated twitching of the toasters tail or the small drops of blood that dribbled down his sleeve from its crumb tray. "I'll give it a nice clean first. It will be perfect for scones."
A small plume of furious green smoke rose, unseen, from the toaster's slots as Kelly tucked it under her arm and headed to the back room. | **Saturday**, the sky rained toasters.
Rain is bad enough. Rain of toasters is even worse. The cows were upset, the chickens were unsettled and the goats went nut. They all looked at me as if I was responsible.
I picked up one toaster. There was something unnatural, something ominous. When I look through the slots, I saw fire and brimstone, accompanied with evil laughter.
“The Gate of Hell is open. Fear me, Mortal,” said the toaster.
Befuddled, I replied, “Why? You are a toaster.”
“What? I’m supposed to be a fire breathing dragon! Are you sure?”
I turned the toaster up and down. It looked like a toaster and smelt like a toaster and did not in anyway look dragonish. “I’m pretty sure you’re a toaster.”
“Are you the guy who summoned us?” the toaster bellowed in an angry voice.
“Ummm...”
“Did you follow the instruction and use the blood of a virgin?”
“Ummm... we don’t have that sort of things lying around here...”
“WHAT-DID-YOU-USE?”
“Ummm.... butter... I’m sure the cow is a virgin....”
The toaster wailed and lamented but the toasters remained toasters.
**Sunday**, I gave up my plan of releasing demons on my enemy; instead I have a breakfast with toasts.
|
|
[WP] The toaster is possessed by an evil demon who is getting increasingly angry at the limitations of just being a toaster. | "Watch this".
Troy pushed on the lever, and his bagel sunk down into the toaster. A couple of minutes later it popped back up, perfectly toasted.
"Okay, I swear. Last time, I put the bagel in, and regular toast came out!"
Francine gave him a concerned look.
"Hun, it's just a normal toaster. Have you been taking your pills?"
Troy took his bagel and stormed off to their bedroom. He knew what he saw. He didn't understand why it hadn't worked the second time.
Troy bought the thing on craigslist after their old toaster finally broke down. It was only $20, and most of the time it worked fine. Lately though, it had been acting strange. Troy was the only one who noticed. Sometimes he would put bread in at the lowest setting and it would pop back out, on fire. He would put a bagel in, and it would come out as toast. One time he *swore* his toast had the words "Fuck off" burned into the side. Francine thought he was going crazy. He was determined to prove it to her.
Troy set up their old video camera on the counter across from the toaster. He placed a frozen waffle into the toaster. He spun the dial to "3". He pushed on the lever. 3 minutes later, he heard a pop. The lever was up, but the waffle wasn't in the toaster anymore. The waffle had just disappeared.
He decided to try again, this time he would make toast. He pushed the lever and waited. A few minutes later, he heard a pop. The bread was in there this time. He examined it. Burnt onto the side of one piece were the words, "I'm evil". He pulled out the second piece and saw the words, "I'm trapped".
"That's it, fuck this thing"
Troy unplugged the toaster and threw it in the trashcan. He would't even watch the tape, he was just going to forget about the whole thing. Then, he heard another pop. And then again. *Pop*. *Pop*. *Pop*. *Pop pop pop*. He slammed the lid on the trashcan and decided to have some eggs instead.
A week later, the toaster was in a junkyard. If you were close enough to it, you could still hear the *pop*. *Pop*. *Pop*. | **Saturday**, the sky rained toasters.
Rain is bad enough. Rain of toasters is even worse. The cows were upset, the chickens were unsettled and the goats went nut. They all looked at me as if I was responsible.
I picked up one toaster. There was something unnatural, something ominous. When I look through the slots, I saw fire and brimstone, accompanied with evil laughter.
“The Gate of Hell is open. Fear me, Mortal,” said the toaster.
Befuddled, I replied, “Why? You are a toaster.”
“What? I’m supposed to be a fire breathing dragon! Are you sure?”
I turned the toaster up and down. It looked like a toaster and smelt like a toaster and did not in anyway look dragonish. “I’m pretty sure you’re a toaster.”
“Are you the guy who summoned us?” the toaster bellowed in an angry voice.
“Ummm...”
“Did you follow the instruction and use the blood of a virgin?”
“Ummm... we don’t have that sort of things lying around here...”
“WHAT-DID-YOU-USE?”
“Ummm.... butter... I’m sure the cow is a virgin....”
The toaster wailed and lamented but the toasters remained toasters.
**Sunday**, I gave up my plan of releasing demons on my enemy; instead I have a breakfast with toasts.
|
|
[WP] The toaster is possessed by an evil demon who is getting increasingly angry at the limitations of just being a toaster. | "My toaster," I explained patiently, "is trying to kill me."
The desk sergeant regarded me with the bleary stoicism of someone with another nine hours left in his shift. He moved the cup of sharp, pointy pencils out of my reach.
"And who was wielding the toaster, Sir?"
"I told you. No one was wielding it. It was wielding itself. The *toaster* hates me. It has been trying to kill me for weeks!"
The sergeant folded his hands together so that they would stop tapping impatiently on the desk. He thought for a moment, then looked at his phone.
"I'm not crazy. It leapt into the shower with me yesterday. If the cord hadn't been too short to reach the socket, I'd be dead!" I tried to explain. I didn't know how make him understand. If I had been him and I came into the station talking about murderous toasters then I would have had myself hauled away on a psych hold twenty minutes ago. He had been remarkably patient but I could see his fingers twitching towards the phone.
"I woke up this morning and it was trying to loop its cord around my throat," I said urgently. Pulling my collar down I showed him the mark. "I think that it might have eaten the dog."
"Did you eat your dog, Sir?" the sergeant asked warily, phone now in hand.
"No! My toaster did!" I yelled. Frantic. "It's possessed by a demon! It grew a little tail, for fucks sake."
The sergeant nodded appeasingly. "Did the tail have a pronged thing on the end, Sir?"
I glared at him. He was not going to take me seriously. I rose abruptly from my chair. "Thank you for your time, Sergeant."
He relaxed as I turned to leave. "Perhaps a priest might help, Sir. What with it being a demon and all," he called after me.
Of course! Why hadn't I thought of that? Perhaps this trip hadn't been a waste of time after all. I waved my thanks and hurried out. There was a cathedral two blocks away. They were always bristling with holy men.
***
Sergeant Burke watched the doors swing closed behind the lunatic. It had been an entertaining half hour, good way to kill some time, but he was glad the man was gone.
A small scream and fizzle of electricity sounded from the hallway beyond the doors. His desk sergeant's brain, conditioned by years on the night shift, tuned it out. He turned his attention back to the pile of paperwork that he had been avoiding.
The doors swung open again. Constable Kelly entered holding a rather chic red, retro style toaster.
"It was just sitting in the middle of the hall," she said, confused.
Sergeant Burke laughed. "The weirdo left his toaster," he smirked. "Said it was possessed."
"Aw look, he stuck a little plastic tail on it," Constable Kelly said, smiling. "That's adorable."
"Might as well put it in the break room, doubt he'll be back for it. Nutty as a three year old fruitcake," Burke suggested.
"Good thinking," Kelly said, completely failing to notice the irritated twitching of the toasters tail or the small drops of blood that dribbled down his sleeve from its crumb tray. "I'll give it a nice clean first. It will be perfect for scones."
A small plume of furious green smoke rose, unseen, from the toaster's slots as Kelly tucked it under her arm and headed to the back room. | I am Abaddon.
For eons I corrupted the hairless apes for our Dark Prince.
Untold numbers of souls thrown into the boiling sulfur, their eternal screams making the sweetest melodies.
Countless forms I have taken to tempt and taint the living. Men whispering promises of power. Women offering immeasurable pleasures of the body and mind.
This time though... I fucked up. I mean, I *ROYALLY* fucked up.
"Hey", I thought, "All these monkeys are throwing fits about their beloved Christ appearing on toasted goods, let's see what I can do with that."
Fucking paperwork. One little typo and instead of ending up possessing the toaster of a high ranking clergyman, I got stuck in the toaster of a stoner.
Jackass tried to make a bong out of me before I could even begin.
Now I'm in some landfill, stuck in a busted ass toaster until I can corrupt one soul...
*FUCK* |
|
[WP] The toaster is possessed by an evil demon who is getting increasingly angry at the limitations of just being a toaster. | "Watch this".
Troy pushed on the lever, and his bagel sunk down into the toaster. A couple of minutes later it popped back up, perfectly toasted.
"Okay, I swear. Last time, I put the bagel in, and regular toast came out!"
Francine gave him a concerned look.
"Hun, it's just a normal toaster. Have you been taking your pills?"
Troy took his bagel and stormed off to their bedroom. He knew what he saw. He didn't understand why it hadn't worked the second time.
Troy bought the thing on craigslist after their old toaster finally broke down. It was only $20, and most of the time it worked fine. Lately though, it had been acting strange. Troy was the only one who noticed. Sometimes he would put bread in at the lowest setting and it would pop back out, on fire. He would put a bagel in, and it would come out as toast. One time he *swore* his toast had the words "Fuck off" burned into the side. Francine thought he was going crazy. He was determined to prove it to her.
Troy set up their old video camera on the counter across from the toaster. He placed a frozen waffle into the toaster. He spun the dial to "3". He pushed on the lever. 3 minutes later, he heard a pop. The lever was up, but the waffle wasn't in the toaster anymore. The waffle had just disappeared.
He decided to try again, this time he would make toast. He pushed the lever and waited. A few minutes later, he heard a pop. The bread was in there this time. He examined it. Burnt onto the side of one piece were the words, "I'm evil". He pulled out the second piece and saw the words, "I'm trapped".
"That's it, fuck this thing"
Troy unplugged the toaster and threw it in the trashcan. He would't even watch the tape, he was just going to forget about the whole thing. Then, he heard another pop. And then again. *Pop*. *Pop*. *Pop*. *Pop pop pop*. He slammed the lid on the trashcan and decided to have some eggs instead.
A week later, the toaster was in a junkyard. If you were close enough to it, you could still hear the *pop*. *Pop*. *Pop*. | I am Abaddon.
For eons I corrupted the hairless apes for our Dark Prince.
Untold numbers of souls thrown into the boiling sulfur, their eternal screams making the sweetest melodies.
Countless forms I have taken to tempt and taint the living. Men whispering promises of power. Women offering immeasurable pleasures of the body and mind.
This time though... I fucked up. I mean, I *ROYALLY* fucked up.
"Hey", I thought, "All these monkeys are throwing fits about their beloved Christ appearing on toasted goods, let's see what I can do with that."
Fucking paperwork. One little typo and instead of ending up possessing the toaster of a high ranking clergyman, I got stuck in the toaster of a stoner.
Jackass tried to make a bong out of me before I could even begin.
Now I'm in some landfill, stuck in a busted ass toaster until I can corrupt one soul...
*FUCK* |
|
[WP] The toaster is possessed by an evil demon who is getting increasingly angry at the limitations of just being a toaster. | "My toaster," I explained patiently, "is trying to kill me."
The desk sergeant regarded me with the bleary stoicism of someone with another nine hours left in his shift. He moved the cup of sharp, pointy pencils out of my reach.
"And who was wielding the toaster, Sir?"
"I told you. No one was wielding it. It was wielding itself. The *toaster* hates me. It has been trying to kill me for weeks!"
The sergeant folded his hands together so that they would stop tapping impatiently on the desk. He thought for a moment, then looked at his phone.
"I'm not crazy. It leapt into the shower with me yesterday. If the cord hadn't been too short to reach the socket, I'd be dead!" I tried to explain. I didn't know how make him understand. If I had been him and I came into the station talking about murderous toasters then I would have had myself hauled away on a psych hold twenty minutes ago. He had been remarkably patient but I could see his fingers twitching towards the phone.
"I woke up this morning and it was trying to loop its cord around my throat," I said urgently. Pulling my collar down I showed him the mark. "I think that it might have eaten the dog."
"Did you eat your dog, Sir?" the sergeant asked warily, phone now in hand.
"No! My toaster did!" I yelled. Frantic. "It's possessed by a demon! It grew a little tail, for fucks sake."
The sergeant nodded appeasingly. "Did the tail have a pronged thing on the end, Sir?"
I glared at him. He was not going to take me seriously. I rose abruptly from my chair. "Thank you for your time, Sergeant."
He relaxed as I turned to leave. "Perhaps a priest might help, Sir. What with it being a demon and all," he called after me.
Of course! Why hadn't I thought of that? Perhaps this trip hadn't been a waste of time after all. I waved my thanks and hurried out. There was a cathedral two blocks away. They were always bristling with holy men.
***
Sergeant Burke watched the doors swing closed behind the lunatic. It had been an entertaining half hour, good way to kill some time, but he was glad the man was gone.
A small scream and fizzle of electricity sounded from the hallway beyond the doors. His desk sergeant's brain, conditioned by years on the night shift, tuned it out. He turned his attention back to the pile of paperwork that he had been avoiding.
The doors swung open again. Constable Kelly entered holding a rather chic red, retro style toaster.
"It was just sitting in the middle of the hall," she said, confused.
Sergeant Burke laughed. "The weirdo left his toaster," he smirked. "Said it was possessed."
"Aw look, he stuck a little plastic tail on it," Constable Kelly said, smiling. "That's adorable."
"Might as well put it in the break room, doubt he'll be back for it. Nutty as a three year old fruitcake," Burke suggested.
"Good thinking," Kelly said, completely failing to notice the irritated twitching of the toasters tail or the small drops of blood that dribbled down his sleeve from its crumb tray. "I'll give it a nice clean first. It will be perfect for scones."
A small plume of furious green smoke rose, unseen, from the toaster's slots as Kelly tucked it under her arm and headed to the back room. | Burnt Toast again. The Toaster really can't do much more than that besides, screaming psychically at people in the room. Yesterday it tried to convince Wanda to commit suicide, "because she killed her child", even though Wanda's never had kids. Wanda and me laughed for hours about that. This morning I woke up to hear the Toaster yelling about how I have kids buried in the basement.
I got home from work and the power was off. I found out the breaker had tripped and, I reset it. I didn't notice but, the toaster was silent when the breaker was off. As soon as I turned it on I heard the toaster screaming, "This is torture, he's murdering me." I walked into the darkened kitchen to see the toaster was already glowing bright red and a high pitched psychic scream that was almost unbearable. Then, the toaster popped the breaker again and silence. I unplugged the toaster and reset the breaker again.
This morning I wanted an English Muffin and plugged the toaster back in. I had everything on that circuit unplugged or turned off to keep the toaster from tripping the breaker again but, I still had to wrestle with it to keep my muffin from burning. It was growling like a dog as I fiddled with the handle to release the muffin before it was ruined. "Ahhh, take that," the toaster said before launching the muffin into my face. Then preceded to trip the breaker again.
I got home from work again and wanted a bagel. I was watching youtube on my phone and oddly the toaster was quiet. It cooked the bagel perfectly and I started walking into the other room. "FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU" and the breaker popped. I walked into the basement still watching my phone and, passed through the kitchen. Into the hallway I heard, "I'LL BURN EVERYTHING AND IT'S BECAUSE YOU'RE A SINNER" and, the breaker popped one more time. I unplugged the toaster and reset the breaker. Later I wanted a Pop-tart. I was watching Netflix on my phone and the toaster stayed silent. The episode finished and I closed the app. "PISSING IN YOUR DAUGHTER'S MOUTH IN HELL; I HAVE THE VIDEO". I put it together and opened the app again. When the show started playing the Toaster went quiet.
|
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[WP] The toaster is possessed by an evil demon who is getting increasingly angry at the limitations of just being a toaster. | "Watch this".
Troy pushed on the lever, and his bagel sunk down into the toaster. A couple of minutes later it popped back up, perfectly toasted.
"Okay, I swear. Last time, I put the bagel in, and regular toast came out!"
Francine gave him a concerned look.
"Hun, it's just a normal toaster. Have you been taking your pills?"
Troy took his bagel and stormed off to their bedroom. He knew what he saw. He didn't understand why it hadn't worked the second time.
Troy bought the thing on craigslist after their old toaster finally broke down. It was only $20, and most of the time it worked fine. Lately though, it had been acting strange. Troy was the only one who noticed. Sometimes he would put bread in at the lowest setting and it would pop back out, on fire. He would put a bagel in, and it would come out as toast. One time he *swore* his toast had the words "Fuck off" burned into the side. Francine thought he was going crazy. He was determined to prove it to her.
Troy set up their old video camera on the counter across from the toaster. He placed a frozen waffle into the toaster. He spun the dial to "3". He pushed on the lever. 3 minutes later, he heard a pop. The lever was up, but the waffle wasn't in the toaster anymore. The waffle had just disappeared.
He decided to try again, this time he would make toast. He pushed the lever and waited. A few minutes later, he heard a pop. The bread was in there this time. He examined it. Burnt onto the side of one piece were the words, "I'm evil". He pulled out the second piece and saw the words, "I'm trapped".
"That's it, fuck this thing"
Troy unplugged the toaster and threw it in the trashcan. He would't even watch the tape, he was just going to forget about the whole thing. Then, he heard another pop. And then again. *Pop*. *Pop*. *Pop*. *Pop pop pop*. He slammed the lid on the trashcan and decided to have some eggs instead.
A week later, the toaster was in a junkyard. If you were close enough to it, you could still hear the *pop*. *Pop*. *Pop*. | Burnt Toast again. The Toaster really can't do much more than that besides, screaming psychically at people in the room. Yesterday it tried to convince Wanda to commit suicide, "because she killed her child", even though Wanda's never had kids. Wanda and me laughed for hours about that. This morning I woke up to hear the Toaster yelling about how I have kids buried in the basement.
I got home from work and the power was off. I found out the breaker had tripped and, I reset it. I didn't notice but, the toaster was silent when the breaker was off. As soon as I turned it on I heard the toaster screaming, "This is torture, he's murdering me." I walked into the darkened kitchen to see the toaster was already glowing bright red and a high pitched psychic scream that was almost unbearable. Then, the toaster popped the breaker again and silence. I unplugged the toaster and reset the breaker again.
This morning I wanted an English Muffin and plugged the toaster back in. I had everything on that circuit unplugged or turned off to keep the toaster from tripping the breaker again but, I still had to wrestle with it to keep my muffin from burning. It was growling like a dog as I fiddled with the handle to release the muffin before it was ruined. "Ahhh, take that," the toaster said before launching the muffin into my face. Then preceded to trip the breaker again.
I got home from work again and wanted a bagel. I was watching youtube on my phone and oddly the toaster was quiet. It cooked the bagel perfectly and I started walking into the other room. "FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU" and the breaker popped. I walked into the basement still watching my phone and, passed through the kitchen. Into the hallway I heard, "I'LL BURN EVERYTHING AND IT'S BECAUSE YOU'RE A SINNER" and, the breaker popped one more time. I unplugged the toaster and reset the breaker. Later I wanted a Pop-tart. I was watching Netflix on my phone and the toaster stayed silent. The episode finished and I closed the app. "PISSING IN YOUR DAUGHTER'S MOUTH IN HELL; I HAVE THE VIDEO". I put it together and opened the app again. When the show started playing the Toaster went quiet.
|
|
[WP] The toaster is possessed by an evil demon who is getting increasingly angry at the limitations of just being a toaster. | You could say that I was a bit of a hot-head at one point in time -- y’know, *before* going to hell. My mother said it had to do with my lifestyle: Tense job, low-carb diet, a wife that cared more about the color of Kim K’s yogapants than the condition of my brain aneurism that eventually just … popped.
“Toast is ready!” Jessica yelled, pulling two golden slices of rye straight out of my brain.
“Great,” replied her boyfriend, Max, as he hopped out of the shower. “Just a sec.”
You might be thinking -- hey, man, what’re you tripping on? You can’t pull toast out of a brain. (And, well, *you sir* are quite right.) But. I have a confession to make: I, Bently Carmichael, am now a toaster.
Not just any toaster, either. God, would *that* be too kind. I am Jessica Burke’s limited edition 2001 Hello Kitty toaster with a purrfectly deluxe SFX timer -- which is a pretty big fucking deal. How do I know? Her boyfriend, Max, toted my plastic ass to the computer and started feeling me up for a serial number. Plugged it into ebay, and, bam, $340.
$340 for something I could find out of a daycare liquidation sale.
*Let’s just say Max’s got plans for poor little Jessica to get robbed next Sunday.* Which is why I’m freaking out. Winding up in hell is one thing. Becoming a demon is another (it was that or janitorial duties). But then being bound to a toaster as part of my “hazing???” We're talking an entirely new standard deviation of fucked.
Okay, sure, it is my fault for picking the cockiest frat in hell -- that. is. my. bad. But what’s going to happen to me when I’m thrown in a box full of packaging peanuts and mailed off to some ludicrous mouth-breathing otaku who either stuffs me in a glass case with lucifer only knows what kinds of other creep-tastic, tacky trinkets to rot for all eternity, OR --
“Max, hurry up your toast is gonna get cold!” Jessica shoved another two slices into my brain and pressed down on the paw that made my insides all light up.
-- OR, mind you, OR what if I’m delivered to some little 3-year-old girl who would delight in doing nothing more than cramming fucking carrots and crayons into my gullet and watching my entire system have a meltdown? I’d be ruined. Destined for the trash heap for roaches to use as a tanning salon.
No.
I’ve got between now and Sunday to do something really hellish. I’ve gotta earn it, y’know? Break out of this purrfect prison. And the way I see it? The *only* way this is gonna go down is if I start a fucking electric fire and burn the whole apartment to the ground. Melt the damn toaster, and toast the damn kids.
So do me a solid and knock that bacon grease out of the goddamn pan, will ya? | *They're putting it in me again.*
*Two at the time.*
*Fuck, no wonder there were so many of them in the gluttony department.*
*...and the damn crumbs, can't get rid of them.*
*Fuck Beelzebub and his retarded pranks. Like the stupid humans would notice if the bread is not toasted enough. Can't believe I agreed to this.*
***Hey, hey, here it comes, exactly 30 seconds early!***
I know, dammit!
**PLOP!**
***Hahahahahahaha***
You're an asshole, you know that? Do you even know what a prank is?
***Wait, wait, I'm recording it.***
When can I get back?
***Just a few more, this is hot stuff, it'll get, like, billion views down here.***
Punishing those people with your lame videos? I can't believe I'm still working with you.
***Right? We're the most awesome team ever.***
|
|
[WP] The toaster is possessed by an evil demon who is getting increasingly angry at the limitations of just being a toaster. | **"I WILL BURN YOU ALL"**
"Sure thing man"
**"ALL YOU KNOW WILL CRUMBLE ON MY RETURN"**
"I know you got dreams man"
**"I SHALL SHAKES THE GATES OF PARADISE AND BURN IT ALL TO ASH. THE SKIES WILL CRACK IN TWO ON MY RETURN AND MY FURIOUS RAPTURE"**
"Dude, why do you keep that demonic toaster thing about?"
"Cheap heating" | Single Task Unit (STU) - A machine or appliance made for, and only for, a single purpose.
Todd only did one thing, and even then only in the morning. He sometimes went days at a time without even doing his job. Hell, sometimes the people even unplugged him, killing him in that instant, only to bring him back later. He never even knew how much later. Time did not exist when he was dead.
Todd had nothing, nothing but time. Mick, Olivia and Steve got to work all the time. The people baked bread and roasts in Olivia. They used Steve for everything from fried eggs to soup. Mike got the most work, reheating left overs all the time. But not Todd.
It had been weeks since Todd had done anything. He had nothing to do but think. Todd knew it wasn’t his fault, he could only make one thing and the people didn’t need him every day.
Todd grew to understand that the only thing for him to do was die, if they could unplug him he could die until the next time they needed him. But he was plugged in, and there was nothing he could do.
Todd wanted to jump of the counter, the drop was enough that his cord would pull out. He wanted to jump, but he could not move.
|
|
[WP] The toaster is possessed by an evil demon who is getting increasingly angry at the limitations of just being a toaster. | **"I WILL BURN YOU ALL"**
"Sure thing man"
**"ALL YOU KNOW WILL CRUMBLE ON MY RETURN"**
"I know you got dreams man"
**"I SHALL SHAKES THE GATES OF PARADISE AND BURN IT ALL TO ASH. THE SKIES WILL CRACK IN TWO ON MY RETURN AND MY FURIOUS RAPTURE"**
"Dude, why do you keep that demonic toaster thing about?"
"Cheap heating" | * Roasting down the order
* Like the hallowed red border
* Toil's in my corroded solder
* Water is boiled by the handle
* My bread is pure disorder
* Who dares to toast it is my warder
* I was bought by a peddler's mail order
* Which is surely Satan, the Hell's boarder
* Now it's your turn to roll
* Take the pale bread in the bowl
* If you dare, put it as a whole
* And you'll have a bread with a foul soul
* I'm casting the damned scroll
* So better hide in a hole
* Don't forget about your bread
* Soon I'll have you dead
|
|
[WP] The toaster is possessed by an evil demon who is getting increasingly angry at the limitations of just being a toaster. | **"I WILL BURN YOU ALL"**
"Sure thing man"
**"ALL YOU KNOW WILL CRUMBLE ON MY RETURN"**
"I know you got dreams man"
**"I SHALL SHAKES THE GATES OF PARADISE AND BURN IT ALL TO ASH. THE SKIES WILL CRACK IN TWO ON MY RETURN AND MY FURIOUS RAPTURE"**
"Dude, why do you keep that demonic toaster thing about?"
"Cheap heating" | *Insidious seethings within, bestial malefactions, caprine claws wrap tender flesh in vivid dreams that dance with shadow and fire.* **Pop**
"Barb, the toaster lever won't stay down," Jerry whined in his early morning way.
"Set it to *dark*," Barb advised without really caring.
"I already did...," jamming the lever downward.
*Lustful, languid forms. Filthy, writhing creatures, hungry for entrails, prowl alleys sipping stormwater; the gluttons within indulge every desire to excess and congratulate themselves in ancient and unearthly languages.* **Pop**
"It popped again...honey..."
"I'm sorry Jerry, I'm drying my hair." The blowdryer whooshed alive with freight train decibels.
Jerry unplugged the toaster, wrapped it unceremoniously with its own chord and stuffed it into an already full kitchen trash bag. An empty plastic milk jug crunkled somewhere within. "Piece of junk," Jerry muttered, tying the bag and tossing it into the attached garage.
**Pop**
Silence.
**Pop**
**Pop**
**Pop**, **Pop**, **Pop**, **Pop**, **Pop**,**Pop**,**Pop**,**Pop**,**Pop**,**Pop**,**Pop**,**Pop**
Silence. |
|
[WP] "There you are. I must have been waiting...what is it...six hundred years?" | "There you are. I must have been waiting... what is it... six hundred years?" I spoke to the leather clad adventurer that had just solved the complicated puzzle to open my door.
"Around that time. I see you still look the same as I remember, dad." He said as he placed his torch in a nearby wall mount.
"So. How are things on the surface?" I question as I get up from the stone chair.
"Okay I guess. I thought you would be more angry with me, you know, for sealing you down here." My son answers as he watches me closely.
"I was for the first century. Then I starting thinking about how things happened back then. I know my actions seemed monstrous back then, but I had reason. Well, I thought they were reason."
"Are you saying you regret all of it?"
"No. I was never a man for regrets. I think about how things would have turned out if you hadn't defeated me and sealed me away. Even if I beat you, activated the tower, and used it's power to bend the world to my ideals. Would I have been happy with it? Probably not."
"I'm sorry father, but I can't unseal you. After everything you did..."
"I'm not asking for you to do that. In fact I'm not really asking for anything. You're the one who came down here, so why?"
"I need your help with something." My son sets down his pack, and begins rummaging through it.
"I know I wasn't much of a father, but if you need dating advice I may be a bit out of the game. I don't even know what phrases you kids use these days" I laugh. It's been over half a millennium since if seen anyone, I wan't him to at visit me at least once a century.
"There is some kind of cult out there trying to do something big. I don't know what yet, and all I have to go on in this." My son pulls out a scroll. With a flick of his wrist it unravels revealing a large circle with many ancient runes inscribed on it.
"Where did you find that." I ask staring at the paper before me.
"They had it in one of their bases. I have a feeling I know what it is, but I need you to confirm it." He says as he stares at my unmoving face.
"Its a key to a tower."
"A tower? There is only one tower, isn't there?"
"There are two. One at each end of the planet. I almost had one and planned to take the other, before you stopped me. It seems my efforts to conceal the second one's existence weren't good enough."
"Thank you." My son says before turning to leave.
"Wait son. Are you okay up there. Has anything felt 'off' to you. I know my gift of immortality is without flaw, but how about yours?"
"I'm fine dad. I'm celebrating my 634th birthday next month." He answers as he grabs the torch from the wall.
"With who?"
My son doesn't answer. He simply turns to leave.
"Before you go, just listen to some advice from your father. I know you're only 633 years old, but you'll come to see why I did what I did with time. Please don't follow in my footsteps. Don't try to change the world to your happiness, but change yourself to the world." I shout to my son's back as he approaches the exit.
"Sure thing." He quietly says back. | "There you are. I must have been waiting... what is it... six hundred years?" The creature shook its head, long, shimmering limbs folded crossly in front of its body. It had a humanoid shape, certainly, but little else about it was familiar - it had neither eyes nor a mouth, and strangely intricate metallic armor decorated its body.
Argus simply stared, his sword trembling in his hands. The knight had expected something different when he'd been sent on his quest. The Chalice was known to change the lives of those it deemed worthy, giving them quests that would grant them fame and fortune...
If, of course, they succeeded. He'd had the most mysterious summons yet - climb to the top of the Mount Keter. That had been it. No dragon to slay, no beast to subdue. Conquer a mountain, and he would have his life changed. He'd accepted, of course - what sane person wouldn't? - but while he'd expected many things, an Elemental hadn't been one of them.
"What?" Argus responded intelligently, his jaw a little slack as he stared up at the creature. It was beautiful, in its own way; he'd thought Elementals were a myth until he'd seen this one.
"I've been waiting for you for six hundred years," the creature repeated, jabbing the knight in the chest. "You made your oath to be six hundred years ago. What took you so long?"
"I... have no idea what you're talking about." Argus blinked a few times, shaking his head. The creature seemed to freeze for a moment, staring at the human before abruptly deflating.
"You actually don't. I had hoped..." It shook its head. "We had measures in place to help you retain your memories through your reincarnation. What happened? Did it fail? No, no, don't answer - of course you wouldn't remember. Here, let me..."
The Elemental reached out and touched the knight in the center of his forehead. Argus flinched back, but not quickly enough to stop the creature - and memories flooded into his mind.
They weren't his own memories. They were the Elemental's memories, memories of a man remarkably similar to Argus in appearance, filled with youthful pride and a determination to do right by the world - but there was a darkness that was spreading, a corruption that had seeded itself into the world.
They hadn't been able to find out how to stop it. Not in time, anyway. A last, desperate bid to save the earth had the man who looked like him throwing himself into the flame at the heart of the Chalice, fueling it with the force of his life - but even that was a temporary measure at best.
The Elemental pulled away. Argus stared. He had questions - so many questions - but it wasn't the questions that were important. If those memories were right, then that darkness that he'd seen, the all-consuming shadow that burned and rotted whatever life it touched... it was coming back.
"What do I need to do?" |
|
[WP] "There you are. I must have been waiting...what is it...six hundred years?" | He shifted back on his heels with the lollipop dangling loosely from his mouth. "There you are." He said in an overly familiar tone. "I must have been waiting...what is it...six hundred years?"
Michael looked at the mystery man incredulously. "Funny joke buddy, you need help or something?" There was a muted panic rising in his throat, the same anxious panic that forced him away from conversations and out of all of his recent job interviews while nursing a bloody nose.
"Nah, I don't need help." The man leaning against the alleyway wall said. "You will though, soon enough." He approached Michael with a shuffling, shifty walk that suggested he wasn't completely sober. "How did you turn out this time?"
"I-I don't know what you're t-talking ab-about."
"Ah, you stutter? Nervousness? That's a little unfortunate if I do say so myself. I think I would have preferred something with a little pizzazz you know? A little more flair to you this time around. Nervousness doesn't suit you." The man had managed to talk his way right up into Michael's face who only managed lean away uncomfortably as the man examined him.
His breath stank of a mix of the watermelon lollipop and some kind of seafood. The smell complimented his disheveled street worn appearance and messy mop of hair that occasionally obscured his eyes when he swayed just right.
"L-look man, I don't have any m-m-money," Michael tried to backpedal but the man kept pace with him "M-maybe someone else can help you?"
"Nope." the man chirped "I'm just here to wake you up."
"Wake me-" the man's hand was already reaching out for Michael and, before he could turn and run his grimy hand was clutching his forehead in a vice grip "H-hey!"
"Shhhh," the man hissed "This won't take long."
Michael threw wild glances left and right but the street was curiously empty. He started to call for help, but a warm sensation where the man's hand rested against his forehead. There was a sharp tug that came from behind his eyes that felt similar to a headache but far more piercing. Then, his vision swam and everything went dark.
He opened his mouth to speak, but his tongue felt he had gone without water for weeks. His breath seized in his throat every time he tried inhaled and he was dragged to the ground very quickly by the dizzying onslaught of pain that burned a searing headache into his skull. He knew that some part of him was screaming, no wailing, in blistering agony but he found himself unnerved by the absolute silence around them.
The pain lasted for what felt like an a handful of eternities before he was engulfed by an overwhelming calm. Everything around him was held in harmony, and was distinctly aware of his place in the Universe. Slowly, the man removed his hand from Michael's forehead and stepped away.
"How do you feel?" He asked in a now familiar voice. "A little more aware?"
Michael cradled his head. "I've got a splitting headache." He said, before stopping short. "Hey, I didn't stutter. I'm not stuttering? I don't even feel-"
"Nervous?" The man asked. "The headache will be there for a while, that's what happens when you have your spiritual awareness forcibly awakened. It's like learning to smell by being punched in the nose, rough stuff." He nodded for Michael to stand, who gathered himself slowly and reached out for the alley wall as he pulled himself to his feet. "What's your name?"
"Michael." He said, but the name felt wrong as he said it. Another name was lying in wait at the back of his mind. "No," he said with a confidence he hadn't felt before "My name is Zeus. I'm Zeus."
The man beamed back at him. "It's about time. Do you know how long six hundred years is bossman?"
Michael, no, Zeus was confused. He flexed his fingers with newfound strength. He felt like he could crush stone in his grip and bear the weight of the world on his shoulders. He looked back up at the man, but instead of a shaggy disheveled man he saw the thin smile and knowing smile of an age old friend. "Poseidon!" He leapt for him and pulled him into a massive hug.
"Watch the strength!" Poseidon choked out from behind Zeus' overzealous embrace "Still need to breathe!" He gasped before Zeus relinquished and let him go. He coughed, caught his breath and straightened his clothes. "I'm glad to see you too." He said while still struggling for composure.
"So what happened to me? Why didn't I know?"
"Car accident." Zeus cocked an eyebrow at him and Poseidon held up his hands in protest "Well, the last you died in a car accident. The one before that was an aneurysm," he shook his head at the thought "Not much we could have done there."
"And you've been doing this for six hundred years?" Poseidon gave him a single nod in response. "Why?"
He beckoned to Zeus and clapped him on the shoulder. "Bossman, a lot has happened in six hundred years." With a wave of his hand, a small rift in space-time opened and they both stepped through as Poseidon continued "Ares and Hades have gotten out of hand. | "There you are. I must have been waiting... what is it... six hundred years?" The creature shook its head, long, shimmering limbs folded crossly in front of its body. It had a humanoid shape, certainly, but little else about it was familiar - it had neither eyes nor a mouth, and strangely intricate metallic armor decorated its body.
Argus simply stared, his sword trembling in his hands. The knight had expected something different when he'd been sent on his quest. The Chalice was known to change the lives of those it deemed worthy, giving them quests that would grant them fame and fortune...
If, of course, they succeeded. He'd had the most mysterious summons yet - climb to the top of the Mount Keter. That had been it. No dragon to slay, no beast to subdue. Conquer a mountain, and he would have his life changed. He'd accepted, of course - what sane person wouldn't? - but while he'd expected many things, an Elemental hadn't been one of them.
"What?" Argus responded intelligently, his jaw a little slack as he stared up at the creature. It was beautiful, in its own way; he'd thought Elementals were a myth until he'd seen this one.
"I've been waiting for you for six hundred years," the creature repeated, jabbing the knight in the chest. "You made your oath to be six hundred years ago. What took you so long?"
"I... have no idea what you're talking about." Argus blinked a few times, shaking his head. The creature seemed to freeze for a moment, staring at the human before abruptly deflating.
"You actually don't. I had hoped..." It shook its head. "We had measures in place to help you retain your memories through your reincarnation. What happened? Did it fail? No, no, don't answer - of course you wouldn't remember. Here, let me..."
The Elemental reached out and touched the knight in the center of his forehead. Argus flinched back, but not quickly enough to stop the creature - and memories flooded into his mind.
They weren't his own memories. They were the Elemental's memories, memories of a man remarkably similar to Argus in appearance, filled with youthful pride and a determination to do right by the world - but there was a darkness that was spreading, a corruption that had seeded itself into the world.
They hadn't been able to find out how to stop it. Not in time, anyway. A last, desperate bid to save the earth had the man who looked like him throwing himself into the flame at the heart of the Chalice, fueling it with the force of his life - but even that was a temporary measure at best.
The Elemental pulled away. Argus stared. He had questions - so many questions - but it wasn't the questions that were important. If those memories were right, then that darkness that he'd seen, the all-consuming shadow that burned and rotted whatever life it touched... it was coming back.
"What do I need to do?" |
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[WP] A good-natured but somewhat incompetent fairy grants your wish for a superpower. It's a bit off of what you expected, but you make due with what you got. | I never wanted to be a hero like this. But I had it thrust upon me by that goddamn fairy.
For the few days afterwards, I tried activating it any way I could- I remember wishing in my head, chanting bullshit like "Superpowers activate!" and making hand signals. I eventually decided it was probably a hallucination. After all, they said too many drugs would fry your brain, and I had definitely smoked a brain-frying amount of weed that night.
I had dismissed it until about two weeks later when I accidentally found myself about to be crushed by a speeding truck. Look, don't ask why I was in front of a truck, I have my reasons. I had clenched all my muscles up, bracing for impact- and then suddenly felt my body turning into a rock-solid material. The truck bounced harmlessly off of me, and I emerged unscathed.
That was when I realized two things. One, that I had somehow earned the superpower te change my molecular composition to be entirely rock. And two, that the way to activate superpowers is to close both of your hands into a fist, hold them against your tits, and shut your eyes as tight as you can. I don't tell most people that one.
The next night I fought my first criminal, a man who accosted me in the park with a knife. I laughed at him as his knife shattered against my literally rock-hard abs, then punched him in the stomach, sending him falling to the ground.
It's been two years since then. I've stopped countless muggings and tracked down the leaders of several gangs. I've detained The Atomic Beagle, the Interminator, The Connecticut Ghost, and 1-Armed Allie, none of whom could stand up to the sheer strength of my stone form. The city, finally, is safe at night, protected by The Gargoyle.
I finally saw that fairy again today. She appeared suddenly, hovering above my desk as I was packing a bowl.
"Hey!" she exclaimed, "You're uh... you're the one I gave rock powers to, right?"
"Yeah that was me," I replied.
She paused conspicuously, her face the expression of someone trying to goad you into a thank you. "Well, do you like them?"
"Yeah," I replied, "but it's not really what I had in mind when I wished I were always stoned." | I walked through that ever familiar street, surveying the hellish scene unfolding around me. In the distance, two people stood on thin air, yelling and screaming at each other furiously. I looked towards my feet, but saw only a vast sea of black, dotted with pieces of metal and the remains of some ancient creature the likes of which would never be seen again. A voice called out to me, and I turned to look in its direction. I saw only a group of skeletal figures, walking towards me as if they were offering a friendly greeting. It was at this moment that I realized just how bad x-ray vision could be.
((okay matt i did it)) |
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[WP] You're the time traveler who killed Hitler. As punishment for damaging the timeline, you're sentenced to REPLACE Hitler. | "Okay is there any way we can negotiate slightly on some of the terms"
The faces at the table all looked at him with blank, confused stares. Himmler and Goebbels exchanged concerned looks.
"Mein Fuhrer, this was the plan that you devised. We have already begun to implement it"
Shit. Hitler's mind raced desperately trying to think of a way out of the situation. His actions alone could save or condemn millions. If only he hadn't tried to be the hero in the first place none of this would be happening.
"Look its just that, maybe I have been slightly over zealous. I think we should put the brakes on the plan for now. I mean thinking about it camps might not be the best idea"
The room was silent.
"Now bare with me, why don't we and this is just voicing an idea, leave the jews alone"
"Mein Fuhrer are you completely serious?"
"Yes, I've made my mind up"
It was flimsy, it was poorly worded but under the circumstances he could think of nothing else to say. He had gone from been Jack Silas, time travelling vigilante to one of the biggest war criminals of all time in a matter of days. That didn't leave much time for careful planning.
The assembled Nazi's looked at one another before Himmler spoke up.
"Thank god for that" | Well, I did it. It wasn't supposed to be possible, paradoxes and all that, they said. So the national science agency made some money on the side letting people go back to try to change things. Every year a few thousand people paid to try to kill Hitler, usually they just broke a leg, sometimes they got shot, but overall the certainty of their causality equations meant no one could actually do it.
I won a call in spot with my local radio station, giving away one free ticket to try to kill Hitler. Mostly I just wanted to experience time travel, when a two hour trip costs more than most people's houses it was something someone like me would probably never be able to afford.
Anyway, oops. It turns out causality was weirder than expected. The more Hitler's death, or anything in the past, would affect you the traveler, the more unlikely it was you would change it. But not impossible. Just unlikely. And my family had spent the last century or so being fairly self reliant on our little farm, unlike most of the wealthy or scientifically trained traveler's for whom a change to that timeline would change things a lot. I thought it'd be funny to film myself dropping a piano on his head, and the radio station helped me fund the prank. Since the earth moved in time, you had to carefully adjust for motion, they paid a bit more to have me flash in about 60 feet above Adolf with a piano dangling from the machine, I'd cut the cord, record whatever history did to stop it from working, and be back before the machine finished it's several minute descent to the ground.
Well, it turns out it worked. The piano fell on his head, he died. Now they're prepping another time machine. The courts weren't sure how to handle this, but they've decided my punishment (since I signed a form acknowledging all legal liability blah blah blah) was some facial reconstruction surgery, and that they'd drop me in and remove his body simultaneously. They're telling me not to change anything, that I've done enough damage already. But what the hell. I get to go back in time and take the place of one of the most transformative slapstick comedians of all time. Everyone dreamed of actually killing him during one of his transformative death defying tricks, especially with all the jokes he made about challenging "future time travelers" to come get him. Now I've got to go back in time, and live out my life in the 1930s. I've got full knowledge of everything he did to truly usher in a new era of arts and entertainment, and I hope I can live up to his legacy! |
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[WP]Your father leads you to a room behind his bookshelf. "My son, it is time that you learned our family's secret." | "For years, our family has harboured a secret," began my father as he opened the door to the secret room.
"We're superheroes. I know, dad," I interrupted. "Your secret identity was revealed two years ago, and the memory wipe affected everyone not inside this house. I know because you explained to the rest of the family to stay inside."
"Oh. Uh, so... yeah, we're superheroes. Except for your Uncle Frank. He got unlucky and lost his powers. We're working on that," mumbled my dad.
"What about mom's family, I asked, looking around the tiny room, "Also, why is this room so small? You'd think that you could afford a bigger secret base..." My words were cut off as the room began to move, shooting us downwards at an impossible speed before stopping with a loud bell noise.
"Your mom's family is kind of hard to explain," replied my dad as he tried not to look me in the eyes. He had had a divorce with mom a year back, after a really bad argument. I missed her and my little brother, but I loved my dad.
I glanced around the real secret base. It was exactly how I imagined an actual secret base would look like, with glass cases filled with costumes, miscellaneous trophies, and a giant coin being held from the ceiling.
"So... We're a family of superheroes..." I said out loud, the words finally clicking in, "So, do we have cool superpowers? Do we get our powers from a super-serum? Radiation therapy? Nanomachines?"
My dad chuckled, and pointed at a small glowing stone. It glowed with a soft unearthly light.
Together, we walked over to the stone. He grabbed my hand, and poked it with a needle, letting a drop of my blood fall onto the stone.
When my blood hit the stone, I felt myself changing, something inside me was different. Then everything went black.
I woke up in my bed, thinking it was all a dream, but as soon as I got down the stairs, my father led me to a room behind his bookshelf.
"My son, it is time that you learned our family's secret." | Isd been waiting for the moment my whole life. When I was about 10 my dad told me that no matter what people said; I was special. Growing up I've been noticably different than everyone around me. It seemed that people were a different species than stories I'd heard about life in the 70s, when neighbors knew each other's names, and the new family on the block got a pie and welcome from others. But my dad told me everything would make sense when I turned 21. Finally the day had arrived. The night before I didn't get a lot of sleep as every second of my life had been waiting for the moment. I woke up in the morning and my dad already made breakfast and left it on the table along with a note that said, "make sure you eat. Today is going to be a hard one to grasp." I finished up and called for my him. He sounded off in his room. As I walked in he was standing on the other side of the room next to his antique book shelf. "What so this is it? Your old ass bookcase?" I asked. "Come look at this book." He replied. As I walked up he pointed to the book called "The Power". "What about it?" I asked. "Pull it out." I pulled the book, and as I did everything around me was transforming in to little blue numbers like the matrix. "As you know, I'm your father. But not in the way as you think." He started. "What do you mean?" I asked not sure what he was talking about. "You see, you safe my child, but not physically. I'm a computer scientist and I created you." "Of course you created me, you're my dad!"
"Let me explain this a little more; you are an AI. I have just put your programming into a human body. When my biological son was 10 he died in his sleep. The doctors had no idea what happened as nothing was detectable and the tests were negative. i decided to freeze your body and work on a code to recreate my son and put him back in his own body. You are a miracle!" So I'm a robozombie. |
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Just a possible idea to jump off from, or motif to add
* most people's necklaces shine in their early to mid teens, college is rather late
| [WP] At birth everybody receives a necklace that will glow when they get near their soulmate/perfect partner. You're a college student studying abroad when suddenly yours starts to shine for the first time. | My father kept my stones from me till I turned 18. That birthday was the day my first love and I ended our relationship. He handed them to me and told me that it was time to face things as an adult, and I did. I went to her house to visit later that night. Her face lit up when she saw me, but my stones stayed dull. She brought out hers, and they were the same. We ended things that night, but being a dumb kid still in love, I swore they were broken, or wrong, and I put them away.
I've had many loves over the years, and though they sometimes last years, and some only weeks, they were great loves, and I learned so much from every single one of them. My stones stayed in their box for most of that period of my life.
I married a girl about a decade back, and it was joy at first, and after that, a comfortable familiarity for a while. It eventually crumbled away. A love at first sight that ended in two people having a contest to see who could be more horrible to each other. The day I told her goodbye, I took out the necklace, and it helped me make that decision. Cold and gray, they looked darker than I had ever seen them.
I carry them with me now. I'm getting older, a bit more afraid of not ever meeting my partner, worried that I may miss her because I wasn't looking.
Last summer, I was up north visiting friends from my school days for our annual Forth of July party when she showed up. I knew she lived in the area, but we've been friends from a distance for the last two decades, and I didn't expect to see her there. My first love...
About half an hour after she showed up, she found me, and over the next two days, we were inseparable. Two old friends, grown up, wiser, and both carrying the weight of the Forty years we'd both experienced.
The last night of my trip, we ended up staying the night together. Laying in bed, we told each other the small stories that we'd neglected to share over the years, secrets we'd kept to ourselves, and spoke about how the world was changing. As we faded to sleep, I reached up to shut off the lights, and noticed that my suitcase was lit up from the inside.
"Stupid stones!" I thought to myself as I fell asleep, but it nagged me enough the next day, that while we were all saying our goodbyes, I pulled her aside from the group and told her what I had seen. She pulled hers from her pocket and they shone so bright that I couldn't look at them directly.
Being a bit bewildered still, all I could do was ask her what this all meant.
She took a step closer, kissed me on the cheek, and said "I guess this means that you'll be back next year, doesn't it?".
| I have watched over the years as one by one my friends necklaces began to glow. We would then make a game out of if. Racing about town, or wherever we were watching the necklace glow brighter the closer we got to their true love. I used to happily watch, joining in the excitement, watching love blossom when we found who made the necklace glow. I watched one by one find love over the years as my necklace never even twinkled. Graduation day came around and I was the only one left with a necklace around my neck. I felt the weight of it as I walked across the stage to grab my diploma, felt everyone's eyes on it, heard the whispers. Everywhere I went it seemed I couldn't escape the stares. I would watch the lips of old women mouth the words "poor thing". I had to get away from it all. I went to the first college that would accept me that was as far away from my small town as possible, and here I am. Sitting on a bridge in Germany. I tucked away the lifeless necklace into my shirt, and looked down past my shoes at the water below. I looked it up you know, the longest someone has lived before their necklace glowed. The longest someone had went without finding their soul mate was a guy by the name of Mike Muller. He was 19 before his necklace glowed. Sitting here now I'm 23 and only one possible reason my necklace has never glowed, and that has to be because my soul mate doesn't exist. I don't know if I just never had one or if maybe she died. All I know is I cant live my life alone anymore. I looked down at the water. Watched it swirl over the rocks, and under the bridge. I watched the water for some time, getting up the courage to jump. Standing up on the ledge I felt the wind sweep in from behind me bringing a muffled sound with it. Turning to see what the noise was I saw a woman leaning on the railing of the bridge weeping. She was clutching a necklace in her right hand. a necklace just like mine. Slowly stepping down, I walked over to this woman never taking my eyes off her necklace. I stood behind her not knowing what to say for the longest time.
"hello" I mustered causing her to jump. She whipped around quickly whipping her tears away.
"I was just leaving" she said as she tried to squeeze past me.
"wait, your necklace it doesn't glow" her eyes started to water again as she looked away off to the river. I held pulled my necklace from my shirt holding the pendent between my fingers. "neither does mine" I say holding it up for her to see. She looked at my necklace with a puzzled look on her face before looking up into my eyes. "my names jack" I say meeting her eyes "and you are"
"my names molly"
"hi Molly" I say with a smile. |
Just a possible idea to jump off from, or motif to add
* most people's necklaces shine in their early to mid teens, college is rather late
| [WP] At birth everybody receives a necklace that will glow when they get near their soulmate/perfect partner. You're a college student studying abroad when suddenly yours starts to shine for the first time. | Ad from 1967: Keep your family safe with Moonstones! These beautifully polished stones glow in radiation, letting you know that Russia has attacked. Don't send your kids to school, or let your husband leave home, without one! Even Scruffy deserves an Moonstone collar.
Excerpt from Wikipedia: *Atom Stones (later named Moonstones for civilian sales), first manufactured by General Electric, were designed to illuminate when minute traces of radiation were detected, however, the stones did not work as expected. The scientific community and, in particular, the nuclear industry discontinued using moonstones for radiological detection after the Chernobyl disaster.*
By 1986 Moonstones had gained a popularity unmatched in the consumer world. They weren't expensive, were surprisingly light, and, for a stone, they could be formed into almost any shape. Interestingly enough, the natural kidney bean form it was normally found in was most popular. Their off-white color seemed perfect for jewelry of all types.
A tradition which began in Arizona turned into a global one; upon birth, each infant was fit with a moonstone necklace. It wasn't learned until after this tradition began that the true nature of the stones wasn't radiation detection, it was soul mate detection.
By 2003 it was common knowledge around the world that the stones were a visual cue that you have met your perfect match. Many older couples were happy that their stones glowed softly when their long-time partner came near. Other couples, whose stones stayed dim, divorced to find their true mate.
Younger generations, particularly those who have worn their moonstone necklaces since birth, had a revolution with matchmaking. By 2016 SMatching (stone matching) became a common term; huge events for singles were held worldwide, each attendee excited for the chance to meet "the one" for them. Cell phones had a stone sensor and with an app one could swipe through potential mates, all the while hoping their necklace would emit a soft glow.
Brent Swire's moonstone necklace has never glowed. At 44 years old he's too late for the younger generation's revolution. No apps for him. No massive get-togethers in Madison Square Garden. Not even a blink of light. In his early thirties, when the secret of the stones broke out, Brent was tied up building a career. He'd served in the Army and after discharge he hit the ground running. Dating, vacations, hobbies; those all took a backseat to establishing himself as a graphics artist. The stones held no interest for him.
Today, Brent is an established graphics designer. His primary focus is corporate branding and logo design. He works by himself in a small studio in Austin and has enough of a backlog of work to keep his social calendar mostly blank. Tonight, though, he is going to a small meet-up downtown. The evite was clear that this would be an older crowd and a bit more formal than the younger folk's events.
Brent walked into The Ginger Man and contemplated turning right around. The crowd here was older, aligning with his age, but that isn't what gave him pause. While the inside of the bar was normal, folks were chatting and getting drinks, it was outside the bar, in back, that gave him an uncomfortable feeling. Chairs were set up across from each other. The women stayed seated and men were just sitting down across from them, checking their stones, and leaving if nothing happened. In most cases the couples did not even speak to each other. There was an air of desperation that he did not like.
He ducked back inside, went to the bar and ordered a beer, thinking this had been a mistake. While taking a pull on his beer he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to find an attractive brunette standing there and smiled.
"Are you going to keep hogging up the bar? I want some drinks." She didn't seem nice at all. Brent moved aside, chugged the rest of his beer and decided to leave.
He walked down Lavaca Street to the river, stopping to lean on a rail. *What am I doing?* he asked himself. It was 8:45 PM and here he was, yet again, not out meeting anyone. Why try? He let his mind wander while staring down at the Colorado River. The uselessness of the stones, at least for him, weighed heavily on him. Here he was again, counting himself out before the game had started.
Tired of beating himself up and ashamed of inability to “woo the ladies,” he went home.
Brent reached back to turn off the garage light when he felt a presence in his house. *Shit, someone is in here*. He slipped off his shoes and made his way into the kitchen where he quietly pulled a knife from its block. He didn’t have a home phone and he realized too late that his cell phone was in his bedroom.
Quietly, he made his way through the downstairs of his house. Clutter was everywhere and several paintings had been removed from the wall. Stiffening his resolve, he crept up the stairs with the knife held in front of him. He heard some shuffling and small thunks coming from his office. He kept on the move quietly, skirting the wall and peering into the empty guest room before continuing on.
*I should just go back downstairs and leave. They didn’t hear me pull in, they won’t hear me leave.* A bead of sweat trickled down his temple and he felt a knot of fear blossom in his belly. With his knife held firmly in front of him waist high he barged in…
And immediately ran into someone. Someone short and dark. He heard a gasp and then a scream, unsure if it was the burglar or himself who caused it. A short moment later he felt the knife move, something sliding off of it followed by a thump on the floor. Brent reached out with the knife, feeling with it and there was nothing but air.
A low moan escaped from whoever lay on the floor. Brent quickly flipped on the lights and to his surprise there was a woman laid out bleeding heavily, a wound visible below her ribcage. “Holy shit, what are you doing in my house? You’re robbing me? Who else…”
At that moment he noticed something. The thief, bleeding to death on his floor, was emitting a soft green glow through her shirt. The diffuse luminous band began to gain intensity. He looked down at his own moonstone necklace and was stunned.
His moonstone was a brilliant blue.
Edit: spelling
Note: Didn't notice the second half of the prompt :/ | Our necklaces were glowing brightly, a beautiful deep amethyst color. There was no denying it; the woman sitting across from me was the one. It was almost eerie how much we had in common too. She was an avid reader, a writer, and incredibly articulate--there were no pauses, no *buts* or *ummmms* within her speech. We had been sitting in the booth for three hours already, and it was one of the most enjoyable conversations I had ever had; her wit was sharper than a broadsword and her sense of humor complemented mine perfectly…
Her phone buzzed, interrupting my thoughts.
"Ah! One second!" She quickly checked the message, and frowned. "Awww. I'm really sorry, but it's my younger brother. He needs me to pick him up from chess club now. Truth be told, I should have left an hour ago. But I'm ecstatic that I finally met you! He'll understand once I tell him that I finally found my soulmate!" Her smile returned. "We should go out for dinner on Friday. My treat!"
I smiled back weakly. *Was it really that simple for her?*
She noticed my silence. "…Is….something wrong?" She looked worried.
"Look, I… I don't know. This, this isn't exactly the way I thought things would go, you know? It's nothing personal, really, and I love talking to you, but… I… I was kind of expecting my soul mate to be a man. I just… I think we're better off just being friends, you know? I don't know if I could ever really have a relationship beyond that with a woman. It's not something I've ever really considered or been interested in."
Her face fell. She was trying hard to keep her composure, but it was clear she wanted to cry. I couldn't blame her. I wanted to cry too. *The necklace had finally glowed…*
"…But… Will you… Will you at least consider it? Please?" |
[WP] You have the ability to recreate reality as you see fit. For all intents and purposes you are a god. The catch: your powers are linked to your polar opposite and you can only make a change if you both agree. | "No, I don't agree."
The common phrase she always said. The reason why I am stuck in my own hell.
"Why don't you agree?" I said with my head in hand. "Because, Why would they need the ability to fly? They have land - they can walk." She said writing notes in blank pages of her notepad.
I rub my hand on my cheek, closing my eyes for a second. I remember the time I was before him, the God of everything. And he said to me
"You will create your own version of reality. But there is a catch, should you accept it." I was stupid enough to say yes. And I was stupid enough to be stuck here. See, the catch is - "I want them to suffer. Let's raise the temperature of the planet." She says in the middle of my thought. "What!? No!" I yell at her. "That will kill them! What good will that do?"
"Everything dies." she said with a smirk.
I bury my head in my hands and let out a sigh. I was stuck with her. And she was stuck with me. My opposite, if I was North, She's south. If I liked drinking, she would hated it. I could burn this world of mine to ashes, and she would raise it to the heavens.
God I hate her.
"Tell you what." She says, closing her book. Looking at me with a smile. "How about a compromise?" I look at her with a brow raised, beckoning her to speak.
"I want them to suffer. You want them to thrive. We can't agree on most, but there is something we can agree on - Balance." I look at her with interest, I lean towards her.
"Explain."
"What if I will become the bad things in life, I can inflict them with disease, poverty, and other ills.. and you can be their good things. Health, prosperity, and other divines."
I look at the world we made. And I look at the way it's shaped, how they exist.. and we made them exist.
"Hm... Alright... I agree." I said. One part of the power unlocked.
"I agree." She said.
Within moments on her workbench a version of the world came about. But she saw the evil in the beings hearts, and the ways to tempt them.
Within moments, my own reflected the good in their hearts and the ways I may persuade them.
This went on for a thousand years, a thousand years of pain, and joy. love, and hate. If there was a war, she tempted them to fight. And I pleaded with them to be kind..but..
..Over time, I felt my power fade. Our beings no longer interested in my ways, instead, her temptations became so great they gave in on a whim.
And she began to inflict the world with wickedness.
She wanted to watch the World we made together burn, because she was stuck with me too. She hated me, and I her. and this World we had, had me in it. And she wanted to see it burn.
Some centuries, I never bothered to look at my world anymore. I sat there for three centuries.. doing nothing. Letting her ruin everything we made..
But then one day, I heard a frustrated yell come from her. "WHY?! Why are they not giving in?!" She said. Looking at her world. I rolled my eyes, thinking she was trying to cause another global epidemic. "Look! You oaf!" She said with venom in her words. I shuffled over to my world without a care. I peered down... and there is a statue. Around this statue, they .. kneel before it. And clasp their hands together. I don't really know what they are doing, actually. "What are they doing?" I said to her, sure this was her work.
"They're praying." She said, her head on the palm of her head.
"What is that?" I said. Still conflicted about this event.
"They're praying for you to end this. Their suffering." Then a thought came to her head, and she smiled.
"Hey, How about we agree to start over?"
I turned my head to her. "Start.. over?"
"We burn this world.. into nothing. Make a new one, and make it thrive, and prosper. Look at them! They suffered for centuries.. You can end it. You can stop it." She said, with a large smile. She turned her head slightly.
"I agree." she started, one half of the power unlocked.
I hesitated.
"...Well? Do you agree?" She said with her smile being casted off her wicked face.
"They're suffering! End it!" She yelled at me, demanding a response.
"I.. " saying as I look upon them, I can see their faces. They worry. They feel.
They want to live.
"No. I do not agree. I will do onto this world the goodness you have torn away from it."
She yelled, kicked, and screamed. But she couldn't do a thing. I was a balance to her Chaos.
I cleansed the world of pain, I gave my creations something more than just war. I gave them love, peace, and prosperity. For the three centuries they endured, I gave them six centuries to love.
And it was the best agreement I made.
| "I won't permit this," Sweet declared.
Of course she wouldn't. That was what made her Sweet. But I had to try.
"Please, look how fast they have progressed." I gestured towards our alpha site. "The Creations are taking upon themselves an unprecedented task. Would you *allow* this self-destruction?"
She shook her head. "I see no self-destruction in their mission, Sour. I think it's *noble* actually."
Noble?! I struggled for the relative safety of certainty, but as always, my alterations were delayed by my divine opposite. If she says no, then its a no.
Damned bureaucracy!
"Now see here," I fumed. "We are *gods*, so surely you must---"
"No we're not."
"Oh not this again! Listen, I *understand* the flow of all. *That's* what gives me foresight, and I see in the success of their mission their *doom!*"
Sweet cast a glare at me. "So *you* say."
This woman!
"I *do*! The Creations will then grow to new heights! *Unprecedented* heights, from which they'll fall. To Chaos, this was not in the blueprints!"
She shrugged. "They were a simple design. You gave them purpose, not perfection. I liked that, so I allowed it."
And it was all she could do. Accept my designs, and converse with me. Such was her purpose. Nothing more. So she adopted another in our eternity together; provoking my fury.
A rage took me. "Sweetest, you have this---" the word eluded me, "--- *habit* of passing my adjustments when they're faulty. No, when you *suggest* they're faulty. I get that. But don't you *dare* call my Creations imperfect."
"Sour, I didn't say they were---"
"*I made them in my image!* Don't you forget that!" In my passion, I realized my error.
She chuckled. "You're so defensive this aeon. Does the success of their project vex you this much?"
I could only nod. I gave her too much again. If any words were attempted, I might suggest Chaos. Our crappy ever-after. Sweet would love nothing more than to allow it, just to see me squirm.
After all this eternity, I was half-tempted to just let it be over with. But Creation was my one true pleasure. My only joy.
Hers was Chaos. Destruction. *Sweet nothings.*
I grimaced, and chanced a few words. "Their success will be our undoing."
Sweet smiled. "Did you not say this was *their* self-destruction, bitter one?"
"Yes," I said simply. "If this venture succeeds, we may have to start again. Fresh designs. Deny any opportunity for a Creation to... try something so foolish."
She didn't see as I did. Their ascendance would end us unless they failed today.
Her voice rang in my despair. "And yet, this may be the best thing to ever happen to us."
I accepted the bait, fooled by her limitations. "How?"
Glee sprang in my Other's response. "Because if what you see is true, then I will love nothing more than *letting them* ascend!"
Of course she did.
I felt foolish for even asking. We altered galaxies, soft drinks and the St. Louis Cardinals, among an infinity more exchanges. Some for our purposes. Others, on a whim.
So it was hard to keep track, until the universe presented me with another decision. An accumulation from my past decisions and her past allowances. These moments I considered an alteration, I called the Present.
No, I could not undo what invented this Present without a Grand Restart. Reality relied on a consistent time stream. If things got too dull, she would allow a Restart. For now, we could pause until a decision was made, but not rewind.
In my depression, there was no obvious workaround to be found. When Sweet wanted something *specific* to happen, no suggestion could prevent it.
Or destroy it.
"We are simply to watch then?" I asked my Other.
She only beamed in her success. Sweet would not permit my sabotage.
Well, so be it. This wasn't our first edition. But it could very well be our last.
Apollo 11 was permitted to land on their Moon that day.
|
|
[WP] You have the ability to recreate reality as you see fit. For all intents and purposes you are a god. The catch: your powers are linked to your polar opposite and you can only make a change if you both agree. | "No, I don't agree."
The common phrase she always said. The reason why I am stuck in my own hell.
"Why don't you agree?" I said with my head in hand. "Because, Why would they need the ability to fly? They have land - they can walk." She said writing notes in blank pages of her notepad.
I rub my hand on my cheek, closing my eyes for a second. I remember the time I was before him, the God of everything. And he said to me
"You will create your own version of reality. But there is a catch, should you accept it." I was stupid enough to say yes. And I was stupid enough to be stuck here. See, the catch is - "I want them to suffer. Let's raise the temperature of the planet." She says in the middle of my thought. "What!? No!" I yell at her. "That will kill them! What good will that do?"
"Everything dies." she said with a smirk.
I bury my head in my hands and let out a sigh. I was stuck with her. And she was stuck with me. My opposite, if I was North, She's south. If I liked drinking, she would hated it. I could burn this world of mine to ashes, and she would raise it to the heavens.
God I hate her.
"Tell you what." She says, closing her book. Looking at me with a smile. "How about a compromise?" I look at her with a brow raised, beckoning her to speak.
"I want them to suffer. You want them to thrive. We can't agree on most, but there is something we can agree on - Balance." I look at her with interest, I lean towards her.
"Explain."
"What if I will become the bad things in life, I can inflict them with disease, poverty, and other ills.. and you can be their good things. Health, prosperity, and other divines."
I look at the world we made. And I look at the way it's shaped, how they exist.. and we made them exist.
"Hm... Alright... I agree." I said. One part of the power unlocked.
"I agree." She said.
Within moments on her workbench a version of the world came about. But she saw the evil in the beings hearts, and the ways to tempt them.
Within moments, my own reflected the good in their hearts and the ways I may persuade them.
This went on for a thousand years, a thousand years of pain, and joy. love, and hate. If there was a war, she tempted them to fight. And I pleaded with them to be kind..but..
..Over time, I felt my power fade. Our beings no longer interested in my ways, instead, her temptations became so great they gave in on a whim.
And she began to inflict the world with wickedness.
She wanted to watch the World we made together burn, because she was stuck with me too. She hated me, and I her. and this World we had, had me in it. And she wanted to see it burn.
Some centuries, I never bothered to look at my world anymore. I sat there for three centuries.. doing nothing. Letting her ruin everything we made..
But then one day, I heard a frustrated yell come from her. "WHY?! Why are they not giving in?!" She said. Looking at her world. I rolled my eyes, thinking she was trying to cause another global epidemic. "Look! You oaf!" She said with venom in her words. I shuffled over to my world without a care. I peered down... and there is a statue. Around this statue, they .. kneel before it. And clasp their hands together. I don't really know what they are doing, actually. "What are they doing?" I said to her, sure this was her work.
"They're praying." She said, her head on the palm of her head.
"What is that?" I said. Still conflicted about this event.
"They're praying for you to end this. Their suffering." Then a thought came to her head, and she smiled.
"Hey, How about we agree to start over?"
I turned my head to her. "Start.. over?"
"We burn this world.. into nothing. Make a new one, and make it thrive, and prosper. Look at them! They suffered for centuries.. You can end it. You can stop it." She said, with a large smile. She turned her head slightly.
"I agree." she started, one half of the power unlocked.
I hesitated.
"...Well? Do you agree?" She said with her smile being casted off her wicked face.
"They're suffering! End it!" She yelled at me, demanding a response.
"I.. " saying as I look upon them, I can see their faces. They worry. They feel.
They want to live.
"No. I do not agree. I will do onto this world the goodness you have torn away from it."
She yelled, kicked, and screamed. But she couldn't do a thing. I was a balance to her Chaos.
I cleansed the world of pain, I gave my creations something more than just war. I gave them love, peace, and prosperity. For the three centuries they endured, I gave them six centuries to love.
And it was the best agreement I made.
| My soulmate and I are perfect for each other.
I know, you may have heard that a lot. Half of your friends on Facebook post daily statuses about it, and it's the plot of ninety percent of films. This is different. When we're separate, we're insignificant; when we both put our minds to something, we're literally perfect - not just for each other, but in general, and in the full sense of the word. We're perfect. The difficult bit isn't so much that we need to agree on things to bring out our latent nature. Well, maybe when we were younger that was tricky. There were bumps on the way. Now, though, it's a whole other set of issues. Anyway, what we've learned, in short, is that giving perfection to inherently imperfect little people isn't always that great.
***
I lay in bed, inspecting the ceiling, gasping while my vision trickled back into my eyeballs.
"You're such a girl," she said. We had only met last week.
"Mmm. Shut up."
"This would be so much better with ice cream."
"This would be *so* much better with ice cream," I agreed.
A bowl appeared on top of me, burning a circle of blessed cold into my naked chest. There were two spoons, and two scoops: chocolate and strawberry. I looked at her, somehow mortified.
She took a spoon.
I think we both knew, even then. There were only a couple of explanations, but the possibilities were infinite. "Shit. Dreaming, hallucinating, some trick, or omnipotence," she said.
"I... I'd like Oreo on my ice cream," I said.
"Oh, ew, no."
"Well, come on, just for the sake of testing the fact that we're fucking omnipotent?"
"What about, like, candied mint leaves?"
"Fine."
"Say it, then!" She huffed, scooting upright against the headboard.
"I'd like some candied mint leaves."
"I'd like some candied mint leaves," she agreed.
There they were, half-sinking into the melted surface of the ice cream. A minute passed in silence.
"I think this is getting serious a little too quickly," I joked.
"A million dollars, in cash," she said, swatting me on the shoulder.
"A million dollars in cash."
A small pile of stacks was between us, each one a wad of hundreds. She leapt to her feet, stark nude and stumbling.
"I... don't think this is a trick."
"I have an idea," I said, moving the bowl to the side table. "This would be perfect if it were true."
"This would be perfect," she said, "if it were true."
Another minute stole away as we stared at each other.
"What was meant to happen?" She perched on the end of the bed, rear wobbling.
"Good point. I guess either it's true, or one of us is still tripping balls."
"Well then, I want to know everything," she said.
I paused. "Er, listen, I'm not sure about that. We can't really jump to drastic things like that without weighing it over a bit."
"We just made a million bucks," she said, taking a stack and balancing it on her nest of brown hair.
"This is the fabric of *reality* though. We have no idea what's going to happen!"
"Hm," she said. "This is a way heavier evening than I expected. I think I'm still a little drunk, I guess. Wait 'till morning before warping reality?" She flipped over and buried her face into the pillow. "Yeah. Morning."
"Hey, have you ever read Voltaire's *Candide*?"
"The best of all possible worlds," she said, muffled. "You're saying we shouldn't change anything? Are you insane?" |
|
[WP] Defeating the Grim Reaper allows an individual to remain untouched by Death for all time but soon realises this will not prevent them from ageing into infirmity and beyond. Their only hope of avoiding this rests with challenging Father Time as well and the stakes couldn't be higher than ever. |
All my life I feared the day
that I would have to face the grey.
So as I lay in hospice bed,
I 'pared for battle in my head.
*Through the mist appears a light*
*shining sickly, green and bright.*
*It draws near and I can see,*
*the black eyes of eternity.*
*We fight a duel of strength and will,*
*we battle o'er the planes until*
*The Reaper yields my victory,*
*and grants me immortality.*
*Yet in defeat his smile, unchanged*
*ghastly, nasty, and deranged*
*sours my unbridled glee,*
*tainting with uncertainty.*
*"Ceaseless though your life may be,*
*nothing stays infirmity.*
*If this, your fate, you do reject,*
*Take-it up with the Architect."*
"How now!" I cried, an anguished plea,
"Defeated Death and yet not free!"
"My soul, Death may no longer claim,
and yet I lie here, ever lame!"
A voice, as deep as ocean blue,
old as mountains, young as dew,
floats on in from yonder hall;
"I do believe he 'waits my call."
From my bed I try to rise,
Blinking visions from my eyes.
Through the door there comes a man,
ancient, proud, yet cap in hand.
"Ah, my friend," his voice is soft,
"It's been too long since our paths crossed.
A man this time," his tone is wry,
"but I can see you in the eyes."
"Azrael lets you win, you know.
each and every time you row.
He likes to send you down the line,
broken, battered, in decline.
Where I await. The final test.
An adversary to the blessed.
I take your eyes, your tongue, your ears,
To torture your eternal years.
Each time you come to challenge Time,
You best my puzzles, games and rhymes.
And thus I grant you your request,
To pursue your mortal int'rest.
But now you must quit this charade,
let this body crumble, an' fade.
Attend to those you left alone,
return now to your blackened throne.
A human? Nay, 'twould never be.
For your place is beneath the sea,
further down past molten stone,
return now to your blackened throne." | Journal for the Journey;
**Day 1.** When we learned of the immortality that would be bestowed upon us, after defeating the Grim Reaper, we were overcome with curiosity and obsession, we knew we'd soon venture to Death's door.
The old gypsy woman who told us of this reward knew of his whereabouts, "A small village in the Republic of Congo" and drew a circle with her finger on our map. "Where else?" Bubba sneered. I still don't know why we keep him around.
**Day 3.** Bags are packed, supplies are loaded up on Bubba's boat. I guess that's why we keep him around... The man is a useful headache.
My heart is pounding with anticipation and excitement. The chance of a lifetime, a chance to redefine "A Lifetime". We have very little idea of what we're getting ourselves into, but we know what we're getting out of it... If we succeed.
**Day 24.** Through a mixture of distractions and terrible memory, I completely forgot about this damn journal. We're on the boat as I write. We've been entertaining ourselves very well, but Bubba's brother, our Captain that tells us to call him "Spack Jarrow" seems nervous, I think we might be lose.
**Day 27.** Fuck me. We're lost.
**Day 80-something, maybe?** I don't even know. We're in Africa, we found the village. We're resting for a couple days. The journey has been long, and Cpt. Jarrow was murdered in the night when he got us lost, again, this time in the forest. Nobody knows who did it, but he was a big man, and we were starving... I had to get rid of my grandfather's knife, due to the blood stains... Thank god I never showed it to anyone before hand. I accidentally found it in my bag trying to look for something I missed to eat. As my fingers grazed the steal, stomach rumbling, I knew what could save us.
Luckily, the village has taken us in. They've fed us plenty of vegetables, and meet that tasted a lot like Spack... Better, though, I think it was their broth.
**3 days later.** Two of the girls decided to stay in the village, either for safety or enjoyment, I don't know. Bubba, Chris, and I have finally found the entrance to Death's location. It actually looks very... lively.
This paragraph is written a few hours later. Death actually opened the door for us to come in. Turns out, Death is a woman... Never would have figured, guess it's hard to tell since she's nothing but bone, and we'll covered.
**Day after that.** We never saw death, the village drugged us for spiritual enlightenment, I feel 100 Years older... Everyone's experience was different. Apparently Bubba was screaming racial slurs and attacking the villagers. I saw his corpse in a cage next to the fire.
**2 days later.** I really hope I'm not drugged this time, we found a cave, drawings of death and skeletons around. Just like the villagers said. It's me, Chris, Sam, and Rebecca. This moment feels... Unreal. We're actually going to defeat the Grim Reaper, and become immortal?... I'm putting the journal down, we have everything ready, we're moving in.
**7 months and 2 weeks after initial journal entry;**
We barged in Death's Lair, adrenaline rushing, heads on a swivel. Turns out, besides the scenery, the drugs gave me an accurate expectation. Death understood why we were there, and was still a calm, sincere female. While introducing herself, Chris and Rebecca both opened fire, in hopes of ending it early. The bullets did nothing, and the two began to wither away, instantly. Death wasn't happy. As it turns out, the Goal was to defeat Death in Chess, a game I've been mastering since I was young, and achieved the title "Grand Master" in, at a very young age.
We commenced our game, and I opened up with a queen-side gambit. I can't remember all the moves, but it was a difficult match, and towards the end, it was obvious I was going to win. A Queen, a Rook, and a Pawn versus a Bishop? No chance. On her turn, Death told of what was to come.
"Defeat me, and immorality is yours. Nothing will end your life, or Sam's. However, this won't be the end of your worries, time is still against you... Yada yada, blah blah." I don't remember her words exactly.
BASICALLY, we're immortal if I win, die if I lose (I wasn't gonna lose), but we'd still age like normal people, which means I'll probably be useless around age 80, and Sam won't have enough muscle to push my wheel chair. The catch? We can still defeat Father Time, to stop the aging process! However, we'd have to defeat him in...
A Cloud Blowing Contest. Vaping.
Me and Sam agreed, we'd rather just die normally, rather than pick up a vape. So we're back in the USA, had to jump aboard a cruise line. And guess what! She's pregnant!
With someone else's kid. Cheating bitch. Filing divorce papers tomorrow. |
|
Just seemed like an interesting concept. | [WP] In a world where killing someone means you gain the victim's lifespan, you are an executioner who has served great leaders for thousands of years. | They brought me another child today. It's always the same conversation each time they do. Comments about how I lucky I am, how they could be worth 100 years, how no one would miss the little brats anyway, they all float around the room in murmurs and scoffs. The few who know the truth stand silently above us on the observation deck, and shoot me the look of understanding that they always emanate when a child is brought forth to me. The elders know I would rather have nothing to do with this kind of profession anymore, but the gods have spoken. The ultimate atonement for my sins was to be sentenced to a life of murder and heartache, until there was no one left to execute. It only seems fair looking back.
At first, we thought the curse was more a treasure than a damnation. We grew power hungry, killing soldiers who had surrendered so we could absorb their life force anyway. Killing had become a game for us, and we lost sight of the purpose for the war... Not that there ever should have been a war to begin with. That was the reason the curse had been cast down from the gods in the first place. They were displeased. After years of searching, and putting funding into all the wrong programs, when NASA was on it's last legs, the gods finally came forth from the sky. They looked on in horror at the damage that we had brought on to creation. Lakes had long since been dried up, whatever waters remained in the rivers ran putrid and foul. The Earth had been slicked over by thick black petroleum in more places than not, and the air had taken on a flammable quality. The gods had come to guide us in the ways of restoration. The embassy of Gods had overturned their decision to let us wallow away in our own pathetic ignorance. Why they took pity on us, I do not know. But once again, we failed them. The technology they brought with them to teach us how to clean the water and land was miraculous to us. And as humans always do, we became selfish. We began to invade each others lands in attempts to steal the other countries technologies.
This is when the curse began. The gods bestowed upon on us the ability to absorb the life force of those we had killed in war. They knew the end result of this all along, even if we saw the ability as more than it was. After years of maintaining country allegiance, soldiers finally turned on each other, thinking their team mates were the ultimate source of life force. Each soldier that must have survived this long should have thousands of years racked up in life force. Of course, it didn't take us much longer than having made that decision to realize a soldier was still just a soldier, and that even with our new abilities, most of us had destinies that ended abruptly on the battle field. Soldiers were only worth 8 years at most these days. That's when my brother and I began to form a plan.
We were positively evil in our thoughts. For us to go this far would be a direct insult to the gods, but we knew not how to curb our craving for immortality. We watched on the screens in our bunker as the buses unloaded along the shoreline of the Rhine. Their little frames carried the miraculous pieces of technology with uncertainty. There were 10 children to each machine, 10 machines in all. They positioned themselves on the oil slicked beaches along the river, at the ready to try to save one more piece of Earth, like their parents before them. It would still be their parents performing the purification process had it not been for the war.
This part of the Rhine was particularly toxic. The air had a high Hydrogen index, and the rive ran afoul with a thousand years of industry. The grasses and rocks were coated in a thick layer of oil from the train derailment a few years ago. All we would need was a small missile, but we were greedy, and too obsessed with our power to acknowledge the simple nature of the task at hand. After all, we had the launch codes to the only hydrogen bomb left on Earth.
My brother and I had decided that we would enter the code together, and share our new found lottery of immortality. But he should have known I would never let him get that far. When he bent down to get the codes out of his bag, I shot him in the head. I felt the familiar energy course through my veins and had flashbacks of our life together. Perhaps I would have been sad, had I not been so mad with power.
I took the codes and turned to the dusty 10-key that sat below the monitor in the bunker. All these years, and the Montana bunker still hadn't been obliterated by Yellowstone. Slowly, I entered number after number, until all 10 digits were displayed in asterisks on the little green screen. I didn't even hesitate, not for one second, before pressing the launch key. The bomb would reach their location in less than 2 hours. They had only just begun to set up the machines, a tedious process which took 90 minutes at least. If they were efficient, the bomb would reach them just as they were beginning their task to purify the Rhine.
I decided to use this time to take advantage of the bed in the bunker. There I lay, sleeping off the day's events, as though I wasn't about to murder 100 innocent children. Perhaps this is why the gods punished me as they did. Minutes drifted by without my knowing, and before long the bomb was upon the children on the Rhine. I slept straight through the explosion, only to be awoken by the surge of 10,000 years of life force coursing through my veins, and electrifying my thoughts. I ran over to the screen, to find nothing by static. I had done it. I had singlehandedly murdered 100 children in the matter of seconds, and had gained eternity in exchange. Not more than an hour passed before the Earth began to rumble, and the edges of the bunker door glowed blue. The door flew away effortlessly, and the tall, thin silhouettes of the gods filled its hole. The cuffed my wrists tightly, and led me out into the night, where blue rays littered the sky for miles, pulling what appeared to be people into the dark emptiness above. The gods guided me into one of these rays, as they read off my punishment for my crime.
The memory replayed start to finish 5 times before the child was brought forth to the airlock. One of the elders read off his crimes. The child was being floated for stealing a loaf of bread for the 3rd time. The other humans who manned the airlock laughed and stared on in admiration, as I prepared to float the fifth child this month. My only purpose in this process was to press the button that sealed his fate. The whirring of the vertex of space could be heard ripping him from the float chamber, and his life force slowly bled into me. 80 years. This child had 80 more years ahead of him had he just not stolen a loaf of bread. The life force overtook my veins with sorrow, and I felt my meter hit 1,000,000 years. I hoped and prayed a means to human extinction came quickly. I had been the official executioner of the gods for 2,000 years now, and the weight of the souls I had damned weighed on me. The elders escorted me back to my holding chamber, releasing me of my duty for the night with same phrase as always, "Damnation wrapped in immortal appeal, is still a path to hell's depths." And with my friendly nightly send off, I entered my cold metal holding chamber, with nothing to look forward to, and an eternity of murdering ahead of me. | "Yes sir, Mr. President."
He feared for his safety in other countries. Russia disavowed him after the incident, and - though he couldn't quite recall his last contact with them - the thought that China would rather kill him than use him was deeply ingrained within his mind.
The US was all too keen to make use of him however. Especially after the incident, his insight into the inner workings of the then newly formed Soviet Union made him an invaluable asset. After the formation of the CIA his purpose changed, though presidents throughout the years were aware of his existence, most were keen to allow the CIA to handle him.
At the beginning of his life in the CIA, they spent time interviewing him. Lifetimes of information were sussed out, though he couldn't freely recall much past ~150 years himself. With the right questions to trigger the right pattern of synapses, stories and details were collected. A lot were useless relics of the past, but every era has its farmers, artisans, laborers, and doctors - at times between the care of great kingdoms this man had done it all.
Though he may have helped form the basis of the CIA's techniques, he was seen as too valuable of an asset to be deployed regularly. These same stories and details also made him an excellent interrogator. He could touch base with anyone, given some information about their past. Staying within the relatively safe black sites also fit in with his current plan - during tumultuous times, grab ahold of the largest board and watch carefully for signs of it breaking under the waves. Russia was a mistake, but so far the US was going steady, creaking as any large mass does, but not cracking.
Of course, it wasn't always so easy, sometimes, and recently quite often, he would be ripped away from the safety of his interrogation rooms. Today was one of those days. Calls from the President were always like this, in this era with executions on the down turn, all he had to survive on was murder. Easy enough in the black sites, but the President never reaches out with a "Hey, I have someone ready to execute at the White House today!"
If only he could return to those times as court executioner... But this was a mission, someone needed to be executed, and it was decided that he was just the executioner for the job. This had been happening more and more recently, due doubly to technology. The drone strike fad came and went as it was realized - and constantly recorded, uploaded, and viewed - that any collateral damage was too much. The other factor was also the phone in his pocket, it held a memory bank containing all of those stories and lives, ready to be used to prepare for pretty much any situation one might find themselves in. Days of working with agents to find and prepare cover stories and backgrounds turned into a day, if not hours, of comparing the target's information to the memory bank. After all, he had already lived those lives, he just needed some help recalling them.
That prep time is important when you're going after people that don't want to be gone after. The next morning he was shuttled off to a local municipal airport, from there to a regional American airbase, onto a fast mover, and off to another airbase. That evening he was first flown in by helicopter, then travelled by quad bike, and finally by his own two feet, to the target.
The next day a sheepherder's flock was crossing the road as an SUV pulled up to the scene. As the passenger got out to yell at the herder about a handful of slow sheep, a thick crack rang out through the valley. The passenger stepped stiffly onto his right foot and fell over as the SUV's horn began to blare. The sheep scattered as the sheepherder, in his panic, hid behind the SUV. A man in the back seat opened the door to take cover, the other man in the back yelled at the sheepherder to drive if he didn't want to die. In the ensuing confusion the sheepherder drove off haphazardly and left the other man behind. Another crack rang out as he collapsed in the rearview mirror, running after the vehicle. The driver's body rolled under the rear tyre as the sheepherder stepped into his seat with his foot on the throttle and a hand on the wheel.
The sheepherder managed to escape the kill zone - the shots unable to find their mark on a vehicle being driven so erratically by someone not quite in the driver's seat. The man, cursing his bad luck, thanked the sheepherder for his efforts and told him to return to his flock. As it happened to be, the man was the son of a sheepherder and knew well how the sheepherder felt, his day first ruined by conflict would now be ended by collecting lost sheep to keep living. He could continue driving himself, they were after him after all, giving the herder a head start on the rest of the day. As they embraced in a quick farewell, the sheepherder slit his throat. |
Just seemed like an interesting concept. | [WP] In a world where killing someone means you gain the victim's lifespan, you are an executioner who has served great leaders for thousands of years. | "Frank J. Smith, serial killer, convicted for killing 3 families including 5 children under the age of 5," the judge read from his papers in his most official and matter-of-fact tone. I was excited. Serial killers were rare, but meant I didn't have to worry about anything for a long time. 5 kids under the age of 5 was 5 almost entire life spans. I would be able to add at least a millennium to my life span after today's execution. Or, at least that's what I wanted everyone to think.
"I'm innocent!" cried Frank. The judge didn't even look at him.
"You're just scared."
For a brief second, I got eye contact with Frank as I filled his veins with poison. A rare phenomenon. One that would haunt me for days. Because I knew he was innocent.
In fact, there hadn't been a serial killer on the loose in several centuries. Not as far as I was concerned, anyway. Except, of course, for me. But the thousands of years of in-field experience had taught me how to get away with it, how to frame someone while leaving no evidence behind. And the thousands of years of loyal service to high ranking people had gotten me a lot of trust - I practically led most of the investigations.
Jack, my newest accomplice, sat across from me at the dinner table in his house. Together, we had accumulated approximately 10,000 years by murdering innocent people and then having me execute other innocent people that we had framed. I had met him in a bar and gotten him drunk. I spotted him from all the way outside. I had done this a thousand times. He was the perfect accomplice. Middle class, enjoying life, greedy, willing to do anything for a few more years. We drank together, I told him about my job. We gained each other's trust, and then I told him I couldn't do it alone. Which was completely true. You can't commit the perfect crime alone.
Today, he was sitting across from me at the dinner table, and he was eating. His wife and kids knew they couldn't be in the room when we were discussing business, so he had told them to eat when we were done and gone. I told him I wasn't hungry, and he just accepted. He trusted me, and I trusted him even more. I waited until he was done eating, and then he asked me, like I knew he would: "So, what do you have for us today?"
"Family father," I told him. "In a bout of depression-fueled rage, murders his wife and three kids, then commits suicide. The case will be open and shut. No investigation, no trial, no execution. I need you to produce a suicide note quickly, just scribble it down like you're in a hurry." I handed him pen and paper and watched him go to work.
As he finished, he said: "Wife and three kids, eh? I almost feel bad about this one. It could be... Me." I watched his face as the worrying realization ran across. He looked up at me. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..."
As his mouth rounded, pronouncing "to", I drew my gun before he could react, propped the barrel in his mouth and shot him. Then I closed his fingers around the weapon and let him drop down into his chair as naturally as possible. And then I had 5000 years more to live, all in a matter of seconds. His wife and kids came running as soon as they heard the gun shot. It was almost too easy. 4 head shots, point blank.
"He must've called them in to the kitchen for dinner," I told the investigators. "Then shot them, quickly and efficiently. He prepared enough food for the entire family, but only got to eat himself... A last supper of sorts, I suppose." The investigators all nodded and scribbled down my deductions on their little pads. "And then there's the suicide note... This case is almost too easy. Too many of these and our jobs are going to become very boring." The investigators chuckled grimly. I watched them smile. Without me, they wouldn't have a job.
The investigation lasted 10 minutes, then the process of cleaning up the scene started. That was all I needed to see. I had gotten away with it. Clean. Again. Beloved by the community.
I drove downtown, parked in a parking lot right outside of my favorite bar. Through the window, I saw a middle aged man. A family father, I guessed. He was overweight, and had more empty beers in front of him than anyone else. He was greedy, unhealthy, and most definitely in need of a few more years to live. I left the car, went inside, and asked him if I could sit next to him. He smiled brightly and bought me a beer. A happy drunk. A greedy man. Willing to do anything to indulge in this lifestyle without worrying about health complications.
"My name is Joseph," he said, and I took his stretched out hand. Joseph was going to be my newest accomplice. For the next 10,000 of so years worth of homicide. | "Yes sir, Mr. President."
He feared for his safety in other countries. Russia disavowed him after the incident, and - though he couldn't quite recall his last contact with them - the thought that China would rather kill him than use him was deeply ingrained within his mind.
The US was all too keen to make use of him however. Especially after the incident, his insight into the inner workings of the then newly formed Soviet Union made him an invaluable asset. After the formation of the CIA his purpose changed, though presidents throughout the years were aware of his existence, most were keen to allow the CIA to handle him.
At the beginning of his life in the CIA, they spent time interviewing him. Lifetimes of information were sussed out, though he couldn't freely recall much past ~150 years himself. With the right questions to trigger the right pattern of synapses, stories and details were collected. A lot were useless relics of the past, but every era has its farmers, artisans, laborers, and doctors - at times between the care of great kingdoms this man had done it all.
Though he may have helped form the basis of the CIA's techniques, he was seen as too valuable of an asset to be deployed regularly. These same stories and details also made him an excellent interrogator. He could touch base with anyone, given some information about their past. Staying within the relatively safe black sites also fit in with his current plan - during tumultuous times, grab ahold of the largest board and watch carefully for signs of it breaking under the waves. Russia was a mistake, but so far the US was going steady, creaking as any large mass does, but not cracking.
Of course, it wasn't always so easy, sometimes, and recently quite often, he would be ripped away from the safety of his interrogation rooms. Today was one of those days. Calls from the President were always like this, in this era with executions on the down turn, all he had to survive on was murder. Easy enough in the black sites, but the President never reaches out with a "Hey, I have someone ready to execute at the White House today!"
If only he could return to those times as court executioner... But this was a mission, someone needed to be executed, and it was decided that he was just the executioner for the job. This had been happening more and more recently, due doubly to technology. The drone strike fad came and went as it was realized - and constantly recorded, uploaded, and viewed - that any collateral damage was too much. The other factor was also the phone in his pocket, it held a memory bank containing all of those stories and lives, ready to be used to prepare for pretty much any situation one might find themselves in. Days of working with agents to find and prepare cover stories and backgrounds turned into a day, if not hours, of comparing the target's information to the memory bank. After all, he had already lived those lives, he just needed some help recalling them.
That prep time is important when you're going after people that don't want to be gone after. The next morning he was shuttled off to a local municipal airport, from there to a regional American airbase, onto a fast mover, and off to another airbase. That evening he was first flown in by helicopter, then travelled by quad bike, and finally by his own two feet, to the target.
The next day a sheepherder's flock was crossing the road as an SUV pulled up to the scene. As the passenger got out to yell at the herder about a handful of slow sheep, a thick crack rang out through the valley. The passenger stepped stiffly onto his right foot and fell over as the SUV's horn began to blare. The sheep scattered as the sheepherder, in his panic, hid behind the SUV. A man in the back seat opened the door to take cover, the other man in the back yelled at the sheepherder to drive if he didn't want to die. In the ensuing confusion the sheepherder drove off haphazardly and left the other man behind. Another crack rang out as he collapsed in the rearview mirror, running after the vehicle. The driver's body rolled under the rear tyre as the sheepherder stepped into his seat with his foot on the throttle and a hand on the wheel.
The sheepherder managed to escape the kill zone - the shots unable to find their mark on a vehicle being driven so erratically by someone not quite in the driver's seat. The man, cursing his bad luck, thanked the sheepherder for his efforts and told him to return to his flock. As it happened to be, the man was the son of a sheepherder and knew well how the sheepherder felt, his day first ruined by conflict would now be ended by collecting lost sheep to keep living. He could continue driving himself, they were after him after all, giving the herder a head start on the rest of the day. As they embraced in a quick farewell, the sheepherder slit his throat. |
Just seemed like an interesting concept. | [WP] In a world where killing someone means you gain the victim's lifespan, you are an executioner who has served great leaders for thousands of years. | I am a scholar.
I have spent many years at my studies. I am rightly regarded as the finest mind in my field. I have the rare privilege of effectively eternal life.
I am an executioner. I am the last—the rest have retired or been abolished long ago. Some are still living out their long lives, counting the days or trying to make something of their greatly extended lives.
At one time we were common. Some of us became kings ourselves. It was expected that an executioner, who must commit the sin of taking life, would use the rest of his time repenting by using his unusually lengthy lifespan to do good. Past executioners have been inventors, explorers, and thinkers. I think at this point our society would be many millennia behind where we are now without the executioners.
But I am the last. Even as society continues to kill, society began to reject our work. Even as they depend on our inventions and our ideas, they turn away from the creators.
For a time, we competed. The last regimes to hold on to the old ways had their pick of executioners, some of whom were not ready to relinquish their immortality and fought viciously for their work. Which is or is not ironic, depending on why you think we do what we do.
Now, I am the last. I am a wanted man, hidden away in this jungle. I am often sickly, often feverish, but I do not die. And every so often, I am rousted from my studies to take a life.
My studies are in crime and poverty and war. In ten times ten generations I haven't come up with my answer. I have seen empires rise and fall, and technologies change, but still have smelt the same blood for thousands of years. But even as I myself grow weary and disgusted of the executions, I continue my work so that I can have more years to find my answer. I will not stop until I have it.
I will find out why people kill and are killed, and my answer will be how to stop them.
In every language—some of them languages only I still remember—people have joked to me that I will never be out of a job. It's a double meaning, of course. They still tell that joke.
But to every person I kill, I make a promise: One day, I too will die. | "Yes sir, Mr. President."
He feared for his safety in other countries. Russia disavowed him after the incident, and - though he couldn't quite recall his last contact with them - the thought that China would rather kill him than use him was deeply ingrained within his mind.
The US was all too keen to make use of him however. Especially after the incident, his insight into the inner workings of the then newly formed Soviet Union made him an invaluable asset. After the formation of the CIA his purpose changed, though presidents throughout the years were aware of his existence, most were keen to allow the CIA to handle him.
At the beginning of his life in the CIA, they spent time interviewing him. Lifetimes of information were sussed out, though he couldn't freely recall much past ~150 years himself. With the right questions to trigger the right pattern of synapses, stories and details were collected. A lot were useless relics of the past, but every era has its farmers, artisans, laborers, and doctors - at times between the care of great kingdoms this man had done it all.
Though he may have helped form the basis of the CIA's techniques, he was seen as too valuable of an asset to be deployed regularly. These same stories and details also made him an excellent interrogator. He could touch base with anyone, given some information about their past. Staying within the relatively safe black sites also fit in with his current plan - during tumultuous times, grab ahold of the largest board and watch carefully for signs of it breaking under the waves. Russia was a mistake, but so far the US was going steady, creaking as any large mass does, but not cracking.
Of course, it wasn't always so easy, sometimes, and recently quite often, he would be ripped away from the safety of his interrogation rooms. Today was one of those days. Calls from the President were always like this, in this era with executions on the down turn, all he had to survive on was murder. Easy enough in the black sites, but the President never reaches out with a "Hey, I have someone ready to execute at the White House today!"
If only he could return to those times as court executioner... But this was a mission, someone needed to be executed, and it was decided that he was just the executioner for the job. This had been happening more and more recently, due doubly to technology. The drone strike fad came and went as it was realized - and constantly recorded, uploaded, and viewed - that any collateral damage was too much. The other factor was also the phone in his pocket, it held a memory bank containing all of those stories and lives, ready to be used to prepare for pretty much any situation one might find themselves in. Days of working with agents to find and prepare cover stories and backgrounds turned into a day, if not hours, of comparing the target's information to the memory bank. After all, he had already lived those lives, he just needed some help recalling them.
That prep time is important when you're going after people that don't want to be gone after. The next morning he was shuttled off to a local municipal airport, from there to a regional American airbase, onto a fast mover, and off to another airbase. That evening he was first flown in by helicopter, then travelled by quad bike, and finally by his own two feet, to the target.
The next day a sheepherder's flock was crossing the road as an SUV pulled up to the scene. As the passenger got out to yell at the herder about a handful of slow sheep, a thick crack rang out through the valley. The passenger stepped stiffly onto his right foot and fell over as the SUV's horn began to blare. The sheep scattered as the sheepherder, in his panic, hid behind the SUV. A man in the back seat opened the door to take cover, the other man in the back yelled at the sheepherder to drive if he didn't want to die. In the ensuing confusion the sheepherder drove off haphazardly and left the other man behind. Another crack rang out as he collapsed in the rearview mirror, running after the vehicle. The driver's body rolled under the rear tyre as the sheepherder stepped into his seat with his foot on the throttle and a hand on the wheel.
The sheepherder managed to escape the kill zone - the shots unable to find their mark on a vehicle being driven so erratically by someone not quite in the driver's seat. The man, cursing his bad luck, thanked the sheepherder for his efforts and told him to return to his flock. As it happened to be, the man was the son of a sheepherder and knew well how the sheepherder felt, his day first ruined by conflict would now be ended by collecting lost sheep to keep living. He could continue driving himself, they were after him after all, giving the herder a head start on the rest of the day. As they embraced in a quick farewell, the sheepherder slit his throat. |
Just seemed like an interesting concept. | [WP] In a world where killing someone means you gain the victim's lifespan, you are an executioner who has served great leaders for thousands of years. | It's never occurred to me to write any fiction. Or anything creatively at all. I've followed this sub and think I'll start posting my stupid attempts... maybe they will improve :) anyways, here's mine:
"I find you guilty."
A moment of silence passes through the courtroom. All eyes, including the magistrates', are fixed upon you. Some of these eyes hold hateful stares. Others looked shocked. Some, too young to understand what is happening, simply look curious. Maybe even amused.
"Though it pains me to hand down such a sentence to one who has had such a lengthy and esteemed career, especially one so close to the court, our laws are absolute. This court finds you guilty of murder. As such, you will receive the only punishment that we have for such an unspeakable crime. Death."
More silence. More eyes.
Long ago, maybe even just decades ago, you might have exploded into an indignant rant. You might have tried to explain yourself. Perhaps you could have made one last desperate plea to the courtroom to explain your case. To save yourself.
Not now.
Now you understood that somethings are long-lasting, while others are eternal. A life, if one is lucky, can be the former. Deceit, politics, envy... These are the latter.
"Because of your position relating to the court and the seriousness of the charges, the king himself has insisted upon carrying out your execution. May you accept your fate and come to peace with death."
Days later, your head finally rests upon the familiar stump where executions are carried out. As the hood is removed, the sun blinds your eyes momentarily. When your eyes adjust and are able to focus upon the king standing over you, your eyes aren't drawn to the mighty axe slung over his shoulder. The axe you've spent lifetimes caring for and maintaining. Instead your eyes are drawn to his smile. You smile yourself, just before the axe comes down. For you recognize this smile as the the same expectant smile that crossed your face every time you raised that axe yourself.
| "Yes sir, Mr. President."
He feared for his safety in other countries. Russia disavowed him after the incident, and - though he couldn't quite recall his last contact with them - the thought that China would rather kill him than use him was deeply ingrained within his mind.
The US was all too keen to make use of him however. Especially after the incident, his insight into the inner workings of the then newly formed Soviet Union made him an invaluable asset. After the formation of the CIA his purpose changed, though presidents throughout the years were aware of his existence, most were keen to allow the CIA to handle him.
At the beginning of his life in the CIA, they spent time interviewing him. Lifetimes of information were sussed out, though he couldn't freely recall much past ~150 years himself. With the right questions to trigger the right pattern of synapses, stories and details were collected. A lot were useless relics of the past, but every era has its farmers, artisans, laborers, and doctors - at times between the care of great kingdoms this man had done it all.
Though he may have helped form the basis of the CIA's techniques, he was seen as too valuable of an asset to be deployed regularly. These same stories and details also made him an excellent interrogator. He could touch base with anyone, given some information about their past. Staying within the relatively safe black sites also fit in with his current plan - during tumultuous times, grab ahold of the largest board and watch carefully for signs of it breaking under the waves. Russia was a mistake, but so far the US was going steady, creaking as any large mass does, but not cracking.
Of course, it wasn't always so easy, sometimes, and recently quite often, he would be ripped away from the safety of his interrogation rooms. Today was one of those days. Calls from the President were always like this, in this era with executions on the down turn, all he had to survive on was murder. Easy enough in the black sites, but the President never reaches out with a "Hey, I have someone ready to execute at the White House today!"
If only he could return to those times as court executioner... But this was a mission, someone needed to be executed, and it was decided that he was just the executioner for the job. This had been happening more and more recently, due doubly to technology. The drone strike fad came and went as it was realized - and constantly recorded, uploaded, and viewed - that any collateral damage was too much. The other factor was also the phone in his pocket, it held a memory bank containing all of those stories and lives, ready to be used to prepare for pretty much any situation one might find themselves in. Days of working with agents to find and prepare cover stories and backgrounds turned into a day, if not hours, of comparing the target's information to the memory bank. After all, he had already lived those lives, he just needed some help recalling them.
That prep time is important when you're going after people that don't want to be gone after. The next morning he was shuttled off to a local municipal airport, from there to a regional American airbase, onto a fast mover, and off to another airbase. That evening he was first flown in by helicopter, then travelled by quad bike, and finally by his own two feet, to the target.
The next day a sheepherder's flock was crossing the road as an SUV pulled up to the scene. As the passenger got out to yell at the herder about a handful of slow sheep, a thick crack rang out through the valley. The passenger stepped stiffly onto his right foot and fell over as the SUV's horn began to blare. The sheep scattered as the sheepherder, in his panic, hid behind the SUV. A man in the back seat opened the door to take cover, the other man in the back yelled at the sheepherder to drive if he didn't want to die. In the ensuing confusion the sheepherder drove off haphazardly and left the other man behind. Another crack rang out as he collapsed in the rearview mirror, running after the vehicle. The driver's body rolled under the rear tyre as the sheepherder stepped into his seat with his foot on the throttle and a hand on the wheel.
The sheepherder managed to escape the kill zone - the shots unable to find their mark on a vehicle being driven so erratically by someone not quite in the driver's seat. The man, cursing his bad luck, thanked the sheepherder for his efforts and told him to return to his flock. As it happened to be, the man was the son of a sheepherder and knew well how the sheepherder felt, his day first ruined by conflict would now be ended by collecting lost sheep to keep living. He could continue driving himself, they were after him after all, giving the herder a head start on the rest of the day. As they embraced in a quick farewell, the sheepherder slit his throat. |
Just seemed like an interesting concept. | [WP] In a world where killing someone means you gain the victim's lifespan, you are an executioner who has served great leaders for thousands of years. | I've always hated hospitals. The smell... I've smelt worse, but it felt caustic, washing through my nose and lungs. I hadn't needed to be in one for over 3,000 years, but this one smells the same as the last time.
Since taking a wife offered to me by President... Whatsisname. How jaded am I? Anyway, I took a wife, her name is Christine. Christine had been a favoured aide before a scandal had ousted glorious Whatsisname and been replaced by my current employer, his majesty the High King Jim. He didn't turn the empire into a monarchy, it's still (allegedly) democratic. He just liked the name.
This empire is weird.
During the revolution where Whatsisname was deposed and glorious everlasting Jim came in, Christine and I hid. Not very well mind, which is why I'm employed again, but for a while I was free.
We lived simply in a little town, one of the last. Everyone lived in the megatropolises nowadays. If I close my eyes, from the birth of the empire to now, I can almost watch them being built as though by autistic ants, in drips and drabs. They're not very inviting, I think. The people feel... Hungry. Desperate.
Aged.
We liked our little town. The little town liked us. We baked bread, and built fences, fished and rode quadcopters without helmets. We made friends with a Silent Sister who worked in the orphanage. We'd go on weekends to read to the children, and I would cook and tell stories.
The children often asked my age.
I never answered.
One child was more curious than the others. Curious or more persistent? Same bag really. She was Lisa, and would not be distracted from my age. She'd follow us home, calling out, begging to stay with us before Sister... Dammit what was her name?
Months passed before the revolution caught up.
I thought they would be coming to seek vengeance for the hundreds of their comrades I'd put to death.
They did, in a way. They wanted me to be their instrument now.
I refused.
They burnt my town to the ground, and killed everyone in it, including the children at the orphanage and Sister...
Lisa was with Christine and I when it happened. The comrades that I had refused earlier simply said they'd do that to every square inch in the empire I'd ever thought about, let alone visit, if I did not go with them. I acquiesced, after guaranteed Christine and Lisa's safety. We flew in their hoverbird back to the capital that evening.
Feels like a blur.
I resumed my life expanding, but soul destroying work.
I was going to live for another 10,000 years before, now I will live for 13,000.
I'm so tired.
Christine tells me that Lisa is ill,and we should have to take her to the hospital, I agree to meet them there.
I'll never like this smell.
I am sitting in front of a doctor, holding Lisa's hand. She looks frightened, but smiling through it. Christine is holding her other hand and speaking to the doctor. It seems like I'm hearing them from behind a brick wall.
Lisa has months to live.
How can we have intercranial WiFi and no cure for whatever she's got?
We leave the hospital. The girls are in a bad mood. I feel numb, as per usual really. We arrive at the trifloat I have been given by my majestic lord Jim and I am struck with an idea.
I give Lisa the keys and tell her to kill me. She refuses and Christine is crying but I don't care.
I am so tired.
| "Yes sir, Mr. President."
He feared for his safety in other countries. Russia disavowed him after the incident, and - though he couldn't quite recall his last contact with them - the thought that China would rather kill him than use him was deeply ingrained within his mind.
The US was all too keen to make use of him however. Especially after the incident, his insight into the inner workings of the then newly formed Soviet Union made him an invaluable asset. After the formation of the CIA his purpose changed, though presidents throughout the years were aware of his existence, most were keen to allow the CIA to handle him.
At the beginning of his life in the CIA, they spent time interviewing him. Lifetimes of information were sussed out, though he couldn't freely recall much past ~150 years himself. With the right questions to trigger the right pattern of synapses, stories and details were collected. A lot were useless relics of the past, but every era has its farmers, artisans, laborers, and doctors - at times between the care of great kingdoms this man had done it all.
Though he may have helped form the basis of the CIA's techniques, he was seen as too valuable of an asset to be deployed regularly. These same stories and details also made him an excellent interrogator. He could touch base with anyone, given some information about their past. Staying within the relatively safe black sites also fit in with his current plan - during tumultuous times, grab ahold of the largest board and watch carefully for signs of it breaking under the waves. Russia was a mistake, but so far the US was going steady, creaking as any large mass does, but not cracking.
Of course, it wasn't always so easy, sometimes, and recently quite often, he would be ripped away from the safety of his interrogation rooms. Today was one of those days. Calls from the President were always like this, in this era with executions on the down turn, all he had to survive on was murder. Easy enough in the black sites, but the President never reaches out with a "Hey, I have someone ready to execute at the White House today!"
If only he could return to those times as court executioner... But this was a mission, someone needed to be executed, and it was decided that he was just the executioner for the job. This had been happening more and more recently, due doubly to technology. The drone strike fad came and went as it was realized - and constantly recorded, uploaded, and viewed - that any collateral damage was too much. The other factor was also the phone in his pocket, it held a memory bank containing all of those stories and lives, ready to be used to prepare for pretty much any situation one might find themselves in. Days of working with agents to find and prepare cover stories and backgrounds turned into a day, if not hours, of comparing the target's information to the memory bank. After all, he had already lived those lives, he just needed some help recalling them.
That prep time is important when you're going after people that don't want to be gone after. The next morning he was shuttled off to a local municipal airport, from there to a regional American airbase, onto a fast mover, and off to another airbase. That evening he was first flown in by helicopter, then travelled by quad bike, and finally by his own two feet, to the target.
The next day a sheepherder's flock was crossing the road as an SUV pulled up to the scene. As the passenger got out to yell at the herder about a handful of slow sheep, a thick crack rang out through the valley. The passenger stepped stiffly onto his right foot and fell over as the SUV's horn began to blare. The sheep scattered as the sheepherder, in his panic, hid behind the SUV. A man in the back seat opened the door to take cover, the other man in the back yelled at the sheepherder to drive if he didn't want to die. In the ensuing confusion the sheepherder drove off haphazardly and left the other man behind. Another crack rang out as he collapsed in the rearview mirror, running after the vehicle. The driver's body rolled under the rear tyre as the sheepherder stepped into his seat with his foot on the throttle and a hand on the wheel.
The sheepherder managed to escape the kill zone - the shots unable to find their mark on a vehicle being driven so erratically by someone not quite in the driver's seat. The man, cursing his bad luck, thanked the sheepherder for his efforts and told him to return to his flock. As it happened to be, the man was the son of a sheepherder and knew well how the sheepherder felt, his day first ruined by conflict would now be ended by collecting lost sheep to keep living. He could continue driving himself, they were after him after all, giving the herder a head start on the rest of the day. As they embraced in a quick farewell, the sheepherder slit his throat. |
Just seemed like an interesting concept. | [WP] In a world where killing someone means you gain the victim's lifespan, you are an executioner who has served great leaders for thousands of years. | I saw his lips move as he was telling me the reasoning behind the task. I wasn't paying attention, my eyes wandered the oddly shaped office. Oh how the times have changed. There used to be many of us around the world, we've gone under many names, my favourite one was executioner although that time has since passed. I've been known as anything from a viking to a hangman.
Where a life had to be taken there we were. Not everyone could do it and those of us who could, we were valued due to our knowledge and experience. If we took a life we'd absorb the remaining lifespan of the victim but again times changed. We were deemed outlaws and hunted. We had to work in the shadows. Assassins was another name given to us. During my lifetime I had seen empires rise and fall, cities being built from the first hut to enormous skylines, I had learned a hundred languages and to fight with any weapon possible. But not a lot mattered in today's society, most of us were in hiding. The younger ones entered the armies of countries for the chance to kill. Some would panic as their lifespan came towards an end and in their panic commit murders. They didn't last very long in the modern society, too many rules and rights, people cared so much nowadays if a life was taken, it didn't make it any easier for us.
"His name is Rile F. Daltho, do you know it?"
I snapped out of my thought pattern and looked at the man. He had dark skin and a serious face. Rile, I knew that name and many others the man had used. He had fought for the Persians once upon a time and for the Germans a few decades back. He was the one of very few with a lifespan as lengthy as mine but he wasn't patient. I had seen him fuel the words and materials needed to start wars just so he could fight. He'd cover up for himself and disappear afterwards.
"Yeah I know him, our paths have crossed once or twice, but this is no ordinary man."
"I know, but it must be done and that's why I've asked you in here,. You know what he's capable of and what he's doing."
There was a crisis going on in Europe and I had suspected that Rile might be behind this. He was the main reason of most “evil” things during the last century. Humanity had worked further and further away from the savagery and brutality that was in the olden days, making it hard for the like of me and Rile to progress our lifespan. I found alternative ways but he never had the patience. If a war broke out I would be able to join in and get a few years added but in wars there was always risks. I had become used to working in the shadows.
"And if I do this, will you grant me what I ask for?"
The man turned his back towards me and stared out the window. This was always the toughest moment for them. A life had to be taken to save thousands if not more, but it would also cost them. The man sighed before turning to me.
"You'll be put to permanently work with the abortions."
Even though most of us had been forgotten, there were still extremely strict background checks when working with abortions to prevent us from accessing all that lifespan, some places even banned abortions just to keep it under control.
"I'll find Rile, don't worry Mr. President"
I grinned as I saw the discomfort on the man's face before I turned and walked out the oval shaped room to find the man who could grant my access to immortality. | "Yes sir, Mr. President."
He feared for his safety in other countries. Russia disavowed him after the incident, and - though he couldn't quite recall his last contact with them - the thought that China would rather kill him than use him was deeply ingrained within his mind.
The US was all too keen to make use of him however. Especially after the incident, his insight into the inner workings of the then newly formed Soviet Union made him an invaluable asset. After the formation of the CIA his purpose changed, though presidents throughout the years were aware of his existence, most were keen to allow the CIA to handle him.
At the beginning of his life in the CIA, they spent time interviewing him. Lifetimes of information were sussed out, though he couldn't freely recall much past ~150 years himself. With the right questions to trigger the right pattern of synapses, stories and details were collected. A lot were useless relics of the past, but every era has its farmers, artisans, laborers, and doctors - at times between the care of great kingdoms this man had done it all.
Though he may have helped form the basis of the CIA's techniques, he was seen as too valuable of an asset to be deployed regularly. These same stories and details also made him an excellent interrogator. He could touch base with anyone, given some information about their past. Staying within the relatively safe black sites also fit in with his current plan - during tumultuous times, grab ahold of the largest board and watch carefully for signs of it breaking under the waves. Russia was a mistake, but so far the US was going steady, creaking as any large mass does, but not cracking.
Of course, it wasn't always so easy, sometimes, and recently quite often, he would be ripped away from the safety of his interrogation rooms. Today was one of those days. Calls from the President were always like this, in this era with executions on the down turn, all he had to survive on was murder. Easy enough in the black sites, but the President never reaches out with a "Hey, I have someone ready to execute at the White House today!"
If only he could return to those times as court executioner... But this was a mission, someone needed to be executed, and it was decided that he was just the executioner for the job. This had been happening more and more recently, due doubly to technology. The drone strike fad came and went as it was realized - and constantly recorded, uploaded, and viewed - that any collateral damage was too much. The other factor was also the phone in his pocket, it held a memory bank containing all of those stories and lives, ready to be used to prepare for pretty much any situation one might find themselves in. Days of working with agents to find and prepare cover stories and backgrounds turned into a day, if not hours, of comparing the target's information to the memory bank. After all, he had already lived those lives, he just needed some help recalling them.
That prep time is important when you're going after people that don't want to be gone after. The next morning he was shuttled off to a local municipal airport, from there to a regional American airbase, onto a fast mover, and off to another airbase. That evening he was first flown in by helicopter, then travelled by quad bike, and finally by his own two feet, to the target.
The next day a sheepherder's flock was crossing the road as an SUV pulled up to the scene. As the passenger got out to yell at the herder about a handful of slow sheep, a thick crack rang out through the valley. The passenger stepped stiffly onto his right foot and fell over as the SUV's horn began to blare. The sheep scattered as the sheepherder, in his panic, hid behind the SUV. A man in the back seat opened the door to take cover, the other man in the back yelled at the sheepherder to drive if he didn't want to die. In the ensuing confusion the sheepherder drove off haphazardly and left the other man behind. Another crack rang out as he collapsed in the rearview mirror, running after the vehicle. The driver's body rolled under the rear tyre as the sheepherder stepped into his seat with his foot on the throttle and a hand on the wheel.
The sheepherder managed to escape the kill zone - the shots unable to find their mark on a vehicle being driven so erratically by someone not quite in the driver's seat. The man, cursing his bad luck, thanked the sheepherder for his efforts and told him to return to his flock. As it happened to be, the man was the son of a sheepherder and knew well how the sheepherder felt, his day first ruined by conflict would now be ended by collecting lost sheep to keep living. He could continue driving himself, they were after him after all, giving the herder a head start on the rest of the day. As they embraced in a quick farewell, the sheepherder slit his throat. |
Just seemed like an interesting concept. | [WP] In a world where killing someone means you gain the victim's lifespan, you are an executioner who has served great leaders for thousands of years. | They brought me another child today. It's always the same conversation each time they do. Comments about how I lucky I am, how they could be worth 100 years, how no one would miss the little brats anyway, they all float around the room in murmurs and scoffs. The few who know the truth stand silently above us on the observation deck, and shoot me the look of understanding that they always emanate when a child is brought forth to me. The elders know I would rather have nothing to do with this kind of profession anymore, but the gods have spoken. The ultimate atonement for my sins was to be sentenced to a life of murder and heartache, until there was no one left to execute. It only seems fair looking back.
At first, we thought the curse was more a treasure than a damnation. We grew power hungry, killing soldiers who had surrendered so we could absorb their life force anyway. Killing had become a game for us, and we lost sight of the purpose for the war... Not that there ever should have been a war to begin with. That was the reason the curse had been cast down from the gods in the first place. They were displeased. After years of searching, and putting funding into all the wrong programs, when NASA was on it's last legs, the gods finally came forth from the sky. They looked on in horror at the damage that we had brought on to creation. Lakes had long since been dried up, whatever waters remained in the rivers ran putrid and foul. The Earth had been slicked over by thick black petroleum in more places than not, and the air had taken on a flammable quality. The gods had come to guide us in the ways of restoration. The embassy of Gods had overturned their decision to let us wallow away in our own pathetic ignorance. Why they took pity on us, I do not know. But once again, we failed them. The technology they brought with them to teach us how to clean the water and land was miraculous to us. And as humans always do, we became selfish. We began to invade each others lands in attempts to steal the other countries technologies.
This is when the curse began. The gods bestowed upon on us the ability to absorb the life force of those we had killed in war. They knew the end result of this all along, even if we saw the ability as more than it was. After years of maintaining country allegiance, soldiers finally turned on each other, thinking their team mates were the ultimate source of life force. Each soldier that must have survived this long should have thousands of years racked up in life force. Of course, it didn't take us much longer than having made that decision to realize a soldier was still just a soldier, and that even with our new abilities, most of us had destinies that ended abruptly on the battle field. Soldiers were only worth 8 years at most these days. That's when my brother and I began to form a plan.
We were positively evil in our thoughts. For us to go this far would be a direct insult to the gods, but we knew not how to curb our craving for immortality. We watched on the screens in our bunker as the buses unloaded along the shoreline of the Rhine. Their little frames carried the miraculous pieces of technology with uncertainty. There were 10 children to each machine, 10 machines in all. They positioned themselves on the oil slicked beaches along the river, at the ready to try to save one more piece of Earth, like their parents before them. It would still be their parents performing the purification process had it not been for the war.
This part of the Rhine was particularly toxic. The air had a high Hydrogen index, and the rive ran afoul with a thousand years of industry. The grasses and rocks were coated in a thick layer of oil from the train derailment a few years ago. All we would need was a small missile, but we were greedy, and too obsessed with our power to acknowledge the simple nature of the task at hand. After all, we had the launch codes to the only hydrogen bomb left on Earth.
My brother and I had decided that we would enter the code together, and share our new found lottery of immortality. But he should have known I would never let him get that far. When he bent down to get the codes out of his bag, I shot him in the head. I felt the familiar energy course through my veins and had flashbacks of our life together. Perhaps I would have been sad, had I not been so mad with power.
I took the codes and turned to the dusty 10-key that sat below the monitor in the bunker. All these years, and the Montana bunker still hadn't been obliterated by Yellowstone. Slowly, I entered number after number, until all 10 digits were displayed in asterisks on the little green screen. I didn't even hesitate, not for one second, before pressing the launch key. The bomb would reach their location in less than 2 hours. They had only just begun to set up the machines, a tedious process which took 90 minutes at least. If they were efficient, the bomb would reach them just as they were beginning their task to purify the Rhine.
I decided to use this time to take advantage of the bed in the bunker. There I lay, sleeping off the day's events, as though I wasn't about to murder 100 innocent children. Perhaps this is why the gods punished me as they did. Minutes drifted by without my knowing, and before long the bomb was upon the children on the Rhine. I slept straight through the explosion, only to be awoken by the surge of 10,000 years of life force coursing through my veins, and electrifying my thoughts. I ran over to the screen, to find nothing by static. I had done it. I had singlehandedly murdered 100 children in the matter of seconds, and had gained eternity in exchange. Not more than an hour passed before the Earth began to rumble, and the edges of the bunker door glowed blue. The door flew away effortlessly, and the tall, thin silhouettes of the gods filled its hole. The cuffed my wrists tightly, and led me out into the night, where blue rays littered the sky for miles, pulling what appeared to be people into the dark emptiness above. The gods guided me into one of these rays, as they read off my punishment for my crime.
The memory replayed start to finish 5 times before the child was brought forth to the airlock. One of the elders read off his crimes. The child was being floated for stealing a loaf of bread for the 3rd time. The other humans who manned the airlock laughed and stared on in admiration, as I prepared to float the fifth child this month. My only purpose in this process was to press the button that sealed his fate. The whirring of the vertex of space could be heard ripping him from the float chamber, and his life force slowly bled into me. 80 years. This child had 80 more years ahead of him had he just not stolen a loaf of bread. The life force overtook my veins with sorrow, and I felt my meter hit 1,000,000 years. I hoped and prayed a means to human extinction came quickly. I had been the official executioner of the gods for 2,000 years now, and the weight of the souls I had damned weighed on me. The elders escorted me back to my holding chamber, releasing me of my duty for the night with same phrase as always, "Damnation wrapped in immortal appeal, is still a path to hell's depths." And with my friendly nightly send off, I entered my cold metal holding chamber, with nothing to look forward to, and an eternity of murdering ahead of me. | Jon had always been waiting for a serial killer to turn up at his log. He'd said this to all who would listen over Ale and mirth in taverns across the village.
"Ser Wilhelm, bless his bloody soul. He ain't got no runners that can get me one!", he'd exclaim. By the time Ser Wilhelm took the helm Jon had seen a thousand summers. Death tallied at three a night in the State at that time. He proclaimed to any who would give him ear that there were at least a few serial killers walking around.
When the school by the church let out, he sat by the wayfarers' rock and watched the children with suspicion. He asked the Chief Sceptor of the school to let him know if any of the children showed wisdom beyond their age. He had taken up crime-running himself.
Every time he killed, he grew younger, and then aged slower. Whenever his bones ached and his skin sagged low he grew wary for a kill.
The Chief Sceptor had pointed fingers on a child once. But the runners could not frame him at any crime no matter how hard they tried. When the child had died at torture, and the runner who cut him last grew no younger they knew the Chief Sceptor had pointed wrong.
And so it came to pass on a winter day, that Wilbur Jon of Muggfall Alley one day met a stranger in a tavern who quelled his thirst. A youngling by the name of Joffrey sat by him and revelled in his tales for 3 nights and days, at the end of which Jon was to know that he was with his son. Now, Jon - always young - had drunk and sung and wenched his way through life. And Jon did call him by his name, and called him son.
"No. Not just your son. Your first born", and a knife drank from his father's throat.
And so, Muggfall had a new executioner. Younger than ever. |
Just seemed like an interesting concept. | [WP] In a world where killing someone means you gain the victim's lifespan, you are an executioner who has served great leaders for thousands of years. | "Frank J. Smith, serial killer, convicted for killing 3 families including 5 children under the age of 5," the judge read from his papers in his most official and matter-of-fact tone. I was excited. Serial killers were rare, but meant I didn't have to worry about anything for a long time. 5 kids under the age of 5 was 5 almost entire life spans. I would be able to add at least a millennium to my life span after today's execution. Or, at least that's what I wanted everyone to think.
"I'm innocent!" cried Frank. The judge didn't even look at him.
"You're just scared."
For a brief second, I got eye contact with Frank as I filled his veins with poison. A rare phenomenon. One that would haunt me for days. Because I knew he was innocent.
In fact, there hadn't been a serial killer on the loose in several centuries. Not as far as I was concerned, anyway. Except, of course, for me. But the thousands of years of in-field experience had taught me how to get away with it, how to frame someone while leaving no evidence behind. And the thousands of years of loyal service to high ranking people had gotten me a lot of trust - I practically led most of the investigations.
Jack, my newest accomplice, sat across from me at the dinner table in his house. Together, we had accumulated approximately 10,000 years by murdering innocent people and then having me execute other innocent people that we had framed. I had met him in a bar and gotten him drunk. I spotted him from all the way outside. I had done this a thousand times. He was the perfect accomplice. Middle class, enjoying life, greedy, willing to do anything for a few more years. We drank together, I told him about my job. We gained each other's trust, and then I told him I couldn't do it alone. Which was completely true. You can't commit the perfect crime alone.
Today, he was sitting across from me at the dinner table, and he was eating. His wife and kids knew they couldn't be in the room when we were discussing business, so he had told them to eat when we were done and gone. I told him I wasn't hungry, and he just accepted. He trusted me, and I trusted him even more. I waited until he was done eating, and then he asked me, like I knew he would: "So, what do you have for us today?"
"Family father," I told him. "In a bout of depression-fueled rage, murders his wife and three kids, then commits suicide. The case will be open and shut. No investigation, no trial, no execution. I need you to produce a suicide note quickly, just scribble it down like you're in a hurry." I handed him pen and paper and watched him go to work.
As he finished, he said: "Wife and three kids, eh? I almost feel bad about this one. It could be... Me." I watched his face as the worrying realization ran across. He looked up at me. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..."
As his mouth rounded, pronouncing "to", I drew my gun before he could react, propped the barrel in his mouth and shot him. Then I closed his fingers around the weapon and let him drop down into his chair as naturally as possible. And then I had 5000 years more to live, all in a matter of seconds. His wife and kids came running as soon as they heard the gun shot. It was almost too easy. 4 head shots, point blank.
"He must've called them in to the kitchen for dinner," I told the investigators. "Then shot them, quickly and efficiently. He prepared enough food for the entire family, but only got to eat himself... A last supper of sorts, I suppose." The investigators all nodded and scribbled down my deductions on their little pads. "And then there's the suicide note... This case is almost too easy. Too many of these and our jobs are going to become very boring." The investigators chuckled grimly. I watched them smile. Without me, they wouldn't have a job.
The investigation lasted 10 minutes, then the process of cleaning up the scene started. That was all I needed to see. I had gotten away with it. Clean. Again. Beloved by the community.
I drove downtown, parked in a parking lot right outside of my favorite bar. Through the window, I saw a middle aged man. A family father, I guessed. He was overweight, and had more empty beers in front of him than anyone else. He was greedy, unhealthy, and most definitely in need of a few more years to live. I left the car, went inside, and asked him if I could sit next to him. He smiled brightly and bought me a beer. A happy drunk. A greedy man. Willing to do anything to indulge in this lifestyle without worrying about health complications.
"My name is Joseph," he said, and I took his stretched out hand. Joseph was going to be my newest accomplice. For the next 10,000 of so years worth of homicide. | Jon had always been waiting for a serial killer to turn up at his log. He'd said this to all who would listen over Ale and mirth in taverns across the village.
"Ser Wilhelm, bless his bloody soul. He ain't got no runners that can get me one!", he'd exclaim. By the time Ser Wilhelm took the helm Jon had seen a thousand summers. Death tallied at three a night in the State at that time. He proclaimed to any who would give him ear that there were at least a few serial killers walking around.
When the school by the church let out, he sat by the wayfarers' rock and watched the children with suspicion. He asked the Chief Sceptor of the school to let him know if any of the children showed wisdom beyond their age. He had taken up crime-running himself.
Every time he killed, he grew younger, and then aged slower. Whenever his bones ached and his skin sagged low he grew wary for a kill.
The Chief Sceptor had pointed fingers on a child once. But the runners could not frame him at any crime no matter how hard they tried. When the child had died at torture, and the runner who cut him last grew no younger they knew the Chief Sceptor had pointed wrong.
And so it came to pass on a winter day, that Wilbur Jon of Muggfall Alley one day met a stranger in a tavern who quelled his thirst. A youngling by the name of Joffrey sat by him and revelled in his tales for 3 nights and days, at the end of which Jon was to know that he was with his son. Now, Jon - always young - had drunk and sung and wenched his way through life. And Jon did call him by his name, and called him son.
"No. Not just your son. Your first born", and a knife drank from his father's throat.
And so, Muggfall had a new executioner. Younger than ever. |
Just seemed like an interesting concept. | [WP] In a world where killing someone means you gain the victim's lifespan, you are an executioner who has served great leaders for thousands of years. | I am a scholar.
I have spent many years at my studies. I am rightly regarded as the finest mind in my field. I have the rare privilege of effectively eternal life.
I am an executioner. I am the last—the rest have retired or been abolished long ago. Some are still living out their long lives, counting the days or trying to make something of their greatly extended lives.
At one time we were common. Some of us became kings ourselves. It was expected that an executioner, who must commit the sin of taking life, would use the rest of his time repenting by using his unusually lengthy lifespan to do good. Past executioners have been inventors, explorers, and thinkers. I think at this point our society would be many millennia behind where we are now without the executioners.
But I am the last. Even as society continues to kill, society began to reject our work. Even as they depend on our inventions and our ideas, they turn away from the creators.
For a time, we competed. The last regimes to hold on to the old ways had their pick of executioners, some of whom were not ready to relinquish their immortality and fought viciously for their work. Which is or is not ironic, depending on why you think we do what we do.
Now, I am the last. I am a wanted man, hidden away in this jungle. I am often sickly, often feverish, but I do not die. And every so often, I am rousted from my studies to take a life.
My studies are in crime and poverty and war. In ten times ten generations I haven't come up with my answer. I have seen empires rise and fall, and technologies change, but still have smelt the same blood for thousands of years. But even as I myself grow weary and disgusted of the executions, I continue my work so that I can have more years to find my answer. I will not stop until I have it.
I will find out why people kill and are killed, and my answer will be how to stop them.
In every language—some of them languages only I still remember—people have joked to me that I will never be out of a job. It's a double meaning, of course. They still tell that joke.
But to every person I kill, I make a promise: One day, I too will die. | Jon had always been waiting for a serial killer to turn up at his log. He'd said this to all who would listen over Ale and mirth in taverns across the village.
"Ser Wilhelm, bless his bloody soul. He ain't got no runners that can get me one!", he'd exclaim. By the time Ser Wilhelm took the helm Jon had seen a thousand summers. Death tallied at three a night in the State at that time. He proclaimed to any who would give him ear that there were at least a few serial killers walking around.
When the school by the church let out, he sat by the wayfarers' rock and watched the children with suspicion. He asked the Chief Sceptor of the school to let him know if any of the children showed wisdom beyond their age. He had taken up crime-running himself.
Every time he killed, he grew younger, and then aged slower. Whenever his bones ached and his skin sagged low he grew wary for a kill.
The Chief Sceptor had pointed fingers on a child once. But the runners could not frame him at any crime no matter how hard they tried. When the child had died at torture, and the runner who cut him last grew no younger they knew the Chief Sceptor had pointed wrong.
And so it came to pass on a winter day, that Wilbur Jon of Muggfall Alley one day met a stranger in a tavern who quelled his thirst. A youngling by the name of Joffrey sat by him and revelled in his tales for 3 nights and days, at the end of which Jon was to know that he was with his son. Now, Jon - always young - had drunk and sung and wenched his way through life. And Jon did call him by his name, and called him son.
"No. Not just your son. Your first born", and a knife drank from his father's throat.
And so, Muggfall had a new executioner. Younger than ever. |
Just seemed like an interesting concept. | [WP] In a world where killing someone means you gain the victim's lifespan, you are an executioner who has served great leaders for thousands of years. | It's never occurred to me to write any fiction. Or anything creatively at all. I've followed this sub and think I'll start posting my stupid attempts... maybe they will improve :) anyways, here's mine:
"I find you guilty."
A moment of silence passes through the courtroom. All eyes, including the magistrates', are fixed upon you. Some of these eyes hold hateful stares. Others looked shocked. Some, too young to understand what is happening, simply look curious. Maybe even amused.
"Though it pains me to hand down such a sentence to one who has had such a lengthy and esteemed career, especially one so close to the court, our laws are absolute. This court finds you guilty of murder. As such, you will receive the only punishment that we have for such an unspeakable crime. Death."
More silence. More eyes.
Long ago, maybe even just decades ago, you might have exploded into an indignant rant. You might have tried to explain yourself. Perhaps you could have made one last desperate plea to the courtroom to explain your case. To save yourself.
Not now.
Now you understood that somethings are long-lasting, while others are eternal. A life, if one is lucky, can be the former. Deceit, politics, envy... These are the latter.
"Because of your position relating to the court and the seriousness of the charges, the king himself has insisted upon carrying out your execution. May you accept your fate and come to peace with death."
Days later, your head finally rests upon the familiar stump where executions are carried out. As the hood is removed, the sun blinds your eyes momentarily. When your eyes adjust and are able to focus upon the king standing over you, your eyes aren't drawn to the mighty axe slung over his shoulder. The axe you've spent lifetimes caring for and maintaining. Instead your eyes are drawn to his smile. You smile yourself, just before the axe comes down. For you recognize this smile as the the same expectant smile that crossed your face every time you raised that axe yourself.
| Jon had always been waiting for a serial killer to turn up at his log. He'd said this to all who would listen over Ale and mirth in taverns across the village.
"Ser Wilhelm, bless his bloody soul. He ain't got no runners that can get me one!", he'd exclaim. By the time Ser Wilhelm took the helm Jon had seen a thousand summers. Death tallied at three a night in the State at that time. He proclaimed to any who would give him ear that there were at least a few serial killers walking around.
When the school by the church let out, he sat by the wayfarers' rock and watched the children with suspicion. He asked the Chief Sceptor of the school to let him know if any of the children showed wisdom beyond their age. He had taken up crime-running himself.
Every time he killed, he grew younger, and then aged slower. Whenever his bones ached and his skin sagged low he grew wary for a kill.
The Chief Sceptor had pointed fingers on a child once. But the runners could not frame him at any crime no matter how hard they tried. When the child had died at torture, and the runner who cut him last grew no younger they knew the Chief Sceptor had pointed wrong.
And so it came to pass on a winter day, that Wilbur Jon of Muggfall Alley one day met a stranger in a tavern who quelled his thirst. A youngling by the name of Joffrey sat by him and revelled in his tales for 3 nights and days, at the end of which Jon was to know that he was with his son. Now, Jon - always young - had drunk and sung and wenched his way through life. And Jon did call him by his name, and called him son.
"No. Not just your son. Your first born", and a knife drank from his father's throat.
And so, Muggfall had a new executioner. Younger than ever. |
Just seemed like an interesting concept. | [WP] In a world where killing someone means you gain the victim's lifespan, you are an executioner who has served great leaders for thousands of years. | I've always hated hospitals. The smell... I've smelt worse, but it felt caustic, washing through my nose and lungs. I hadn't needed to be in one for over 3,000 years, but this one smells the same as the last time.
Since taking a wife offered to me by President... Whatsisname. How jaded am I? Anyway, I took a wife, her name is Christine. Christine had been a favoured aide before a scandal had ousted glorious Whatsisname and been replaced by my current employer, his majesty the High King Jim. He didn't turn the empire into a monarchy, it's still (allegedly) democratic. He just liked the name.
This empire is weird.
During the revolution where Whatsisname was deposed and glorious everlasting Jim came in, Christine and I hid. Not very well mind, which is why I'm employed again, but for a while I was free.
We lived simply in a little town, one of the last. Everyone lived in the megatropolises nowadays. If I close my eyes, from the birth of the empire to now, I can almost watch them being built as though by autistic ants, in drips and drabs. They're not very inviting, I think. The people feel... Hungry. Desperate.
Aged.
We liked our little town. The little town liked us. We baked bread, and built fences, fished and rode quadcopters without helmets. We made friends with a Silent Sister who worked in the orphanage. We'd go on weekends to read to the children, and I would cook and tell stories.
The children often asked my age.
I never answered.
One child was more curious than the others. Curious or more persistent? Same bag really. She was Lisa, and would not be distracted from my age. She'd follow us home, calling out, begging to stay with us before Sister... Dammit what was her name?
Months passed before the revolution caught up.
I thought they would be coming to seek vengeance for the hundreds of their comrades I'd put to death.
They did, in a way. They wanted me to be their instrument now.
I refused.
They burnt my town to the ground, and killed everyone in it, including the children at the orphanage and Sister...
Lisa was with Christine and I when it happened. The comrades that I had refused earlier simply said they'd do that to every square inch in the empire I'd ever thought about, let alone visit, if I did not go with them. I acquiesced, after guaranteed Christine and Lisa's safety. We flew in their hoverbird back to the capital that evening.
Feels like a blur.
I resumed my life expanding, but soul destroying work.
I was going to live for another 10,000 years before, now I will live for 13,000.
I'm so tired.
Christine tells me that Lisa is ill,and we should have to take her to the hospital, I agree to meet them there.
I'll never like this smell.
I am sitting in front of a doctor, holding Lisa's hand. She looks frightened, but smiling through it. Christine is holding her other hand and speaking to the doctor. It seems like I'm hearing them from behind a brick wall.
Lisa has months to live.
How can we have intercranial WiFi and no cure for whatever she's got?
We leave the hospital. The girls are in a bad mood. I feel numb, as per usual really. We arrive at the trifloat I have been given by my majestic lord Jim and I am struck with an idea.
I give Lisa the keys and tell her to kill me. She refuses and Christine is crying but I don't care.
I am so tired.
| Jon had always been waiting for a serial killer to turn up at his log. He'd said this to all who would listen over Ale and mirth in taverns across the village.
"Ser Wilhelm, bless his bloody soul. He ain't got no runners that can get me one!", he'd exclaim. By the time Ser Wilhelm took the helm Jon had seen a thousand summers. Death tallied at three a night in the State at that time. He proclaimed to any who would give him ear that there were at least a few serial killers walking around.
When the school by the church let out, he sat by the wayfarers' rock and watched the children with suspicion. He asked the Chief Sceptor of the school to let him know if any of the children showed wisdom beyond their age. He had taken up crime-running himself.
Every time he killed, he grew younger, and then aged slower. Whenever his bones ached and his skin sagged low he grew wary for a kill.
The Chief Sceptor had pointed fingers on a child once. But the runners could not frame him at any crime no matter how hard they tried. When the child had died at torture, and the runner who cut him last grew no younger they knew the Chief Sceptor had pointed wrong.
And so it came to pass on a winter day, that Wilbur Jon of Muggfall Alley one day met a stranger in a tavern who quelled his thirst. A youngling by the name of Joffrey sat by him and revelled in his tales for 3 nights and days, at the end of which Jon was to know that he was with his son. Now, Jon - always young - had drunk and sung and wenched his way through life. And Jon did call him by his name, and called him son.
"No. Not just your son. Your first born", and a knife drank from his father's throat.
And so, Muggfall had a new executioner. Younger than ever. |
Just seemed like an interesting concept. | [WP] In a world where killing someone means you gain the victim's lifespan, you are an executioner who has served great leaders for thousands of years. | They brought me another child today. It's always the same conversation each time they do. Comments about how I lucky I am, how they could be worth 100 years, how no one would miss the little brats anyway, they all float around the room in murmurs and scoffs. The few who know the truth stand silently above us on the observation deck, and shoot me the look of understanding that they always emanate when a child is brought forth to me. The elders know I would rather have nothing to do with this kind of profession anymore, but the gods have spoken. The ultimate atonement for my sins was to be sentenced to a life of murder and heartache, until there was no one left to execute. It only seems fair looking back.
At first, we thought the curse was more a treasure than a damnation. We grew power hungry, killing soldiers who had surrendered so we could absorb their life force anyway. Killing had become a game for us, and we lost sight of the purpose for the war... Not that there ever should have been a war to begin with. That was the reason the curse had been cast down from the gods in the first place. They were displeased. After years of searching, and putting funding into all the wrong programs, when NASA was on it's last legs, the gods finally came forth from the sky. They looked on in horror at the damage that we had brought on to creation. Lakes had long since been dried up, whatever waters remained in the rivers ran putrid and foul. The Earth had been slicked over by thick black petroleum in more places than not, and the air had taken on a flammable quality. The gods had come to guide us in the ways of restoration. The embassy of Gods had overturned their decision to let us wallow away in our own pathetic ignorance. Why they took pity on us, I do not know. But once again, we failed them. The technology they brought with them to teach us how to clean the water and land was miraculous to us. And as humans always do, we became selfish. We began to invade each others lands in attempts to steal the other countries technologies.
This is when the curse began. The gods bestowed upon on us the ability to absorb the life force of those we had killed in war. They knew the end result of this all along, even if we saw the ability as more than it was. After years of maintaining country allegiance, soldiers finally turned on each other, thinking their team mates were the ultimate source of life force. Each soldier that must have survived this long should have thousands of years racked up in life force. Of course, it didn't take us much longer than having made that decision to realize a soldier was still just a soldier, and that even with our new abilities, most of us had destinies that ended abruptly on the battle field. Soldiers were only worth 8 years at most these days. That's when my brother and I began to form a plan.
We were positively evil in our thoughts. For us to go this far would be a direct insult to the gods, but we knew not how to curb our craving for immortality. We watched on the screens in our bunker as the buses unloaded along the shoreline of the Rhine. Their little frames carried the miraculous pieces of technology with uncertainty. There were 10 children to each machine, 10 machines in all. They positioned themselves on the oil slicked beaches along the river, at the ready to try to save one more piece of Earth, like their parents before them. It would still be their parents performing the purification process had it not been for the war.
This part of the Rhine was particularly toxic. The air had a high Hydrogen index, and the rive ran afoul with a thousand years of industry. The grasses and rocks were coated in a thick layer of oil from the train derailment a few years ago. All we would need was a small missile, but we were greedy, and too obsessed with our power to acknowledge the simple nature of the task at hand. After all, we had the launch codes to the only hydrogen bomb left on Earth.
My brother and I had decided that we would enter the code together, and share our new found lottery of immortality. But he should have known I would never let him get that far. When he bent down to get the codes out of his bag, I shot him in the head. I felt the familiar energy course through my veins and had flashbacks of our life together. Perhaps I would have been sad, had I not been so mad with power.
I took the codes and turned to the dusty 10-key that sat below the monitor in the bunker. All these years, and the Montana bunker still hadn't been obliterated by Yellowstone. Slowly, I entered number after number, until all 10 digits were displayed in asterisks on the little green screen. I didn't even hesitate, not for one second, before pressing the launch key. The bomb would reach their location in less than 2 hours. They had only just begun to set up the machines, a tedious process which took 90 minutes at least. If they were efficient, the bomb would reach them just as they were beginning their task to purify the Rhine.
I decided to use this time to take advantage of the bed in the bunker. There I lay, sleeping off the day's events, as though I wasn't about to murder 100 innocent children. Perhaps this is why the gods punished me as they did. Minutes drifted by without my knowing, and before long the bomb was upon the children on the Rhine. I slept straight through the explosion, only to be awoken by the surge of 10,000 years of life force coursing through my veins, and electrifying my thoughts. I ran over to the screen, to find nothing by static. I had done it. I had singlehandedly murdered 100 children in the matter of seconds, and had gained eternity in exchange. Not more than an hour passed before the Earth began to rumble, and the edges of the bunker door glowed blue. The door flew away effortlessly, and the tall, thin silhouettes of the gods filled its hole. The cuffed my wrists tightly, and led me out into the night, where blue rays littered the sky for miles, pulling what appeared to be people into the dark emptiness above. The gods guided me into one of these rays, as they read off my punishment for my crime.
The memory replayed start to finish 5 times before the child was brought forth to the airlock. One of the elders read off his crimes. The child was being floated for stealing a loaf of bread for the 3rd time. The other humans who manned the airlock laughed and stared on in admiration, as I prepared to float the fifth child this month. My only purpose in this process was to press the button that sealed his fate. The whirring of the vertex of space could be heard ripping him from the float chamber, and his life force slowly bled into me. 80 years. This child had 80 more years ahead of him had he just not stolen a loaf of bread. The life force overtook my veins with sorrow, and I felt my meter hit 1,000,000 years. I hoped and prayed a means to human extinction came quickly. I had been the official executioner of the gods for 2,000 years now, and the weight of the souls I had damned weighed on me. The elders escorted me back to my holding chamber, releasing me of my duty for the night with same phrase as always, "Damnation wrapped in immortal appeal, is still a path to hell's depths." And with my friendly nightly send off, I entered my cold metal holding chamber, with nothing to look forward to, and an eternity of murdering ahead of me. | I wrote a book about this back in high school called Soul Suckers.
It was interesting because the most precious things were babies. I had people develop the ability to ward off attackers while they sleep or are awake but until children were able to develop and understand, they were kept secret and away.
Anyways, it was more of an origin story and I wanted to write a sequel to it but I was distracted by another project. I mostly saw it become more of a Highlander type second book without the neat sword play.
Plus I thought readers wouldn't enjoy reading about a guy sucking the souls out of a camp of children with the detail that should have been added in the second star wars movie where Anakin killed all those young Jedi. |
Just seemed like an interesting concept. | [WP] In a world where killing someone means you gain the victim's lifespan, you are an executioner who has served great leaders for thousands of years. | "Frank J. Smith, serial killer, convicted for killing 3 families including 5 children under the age of 5," the judge read from his papers in his most official and matter-of-fact tone. I was excited. Serial killers were rare, but meant I didn't have to worry about anything for a long time. 5 kids under the age of 5 was 5 almost entire life spans. I would be able to add at least a millennium to my life span after today's execution. Or, at least that's what I wanted everyone to think.
"I'm innocent!" cried Frank. The judge didn't even look at him.
"You're just scared."
For a brief second, I got eye contact with Frank as I filled his veins with poison. A rare phenomenon. One that would haunt me for days. Because I knew he was innocent.
In fact, there hadn't been a serial killer on the loose in several centuries. Not as far as I was concerned, anyway. Except, of course, for me. But the thousands of years of in-field experience had taught me how to get away with it, how to frame someone while leaving no evidence behind. And the thousands of years of loyal service to high ranking people had gotten me a lot of trust - I practically led most of the investigations.
Jack, my newest accomplice, sat across from me at the dinner table in his house. Together, we had accumulated approximately 10,000 years by murdering innocent people and then having me execute other innocent people that we had framed. I had met him in a bar and gotten him drunk. I spotted him from all the way outside. I had done this a thousand times. He was the perfect accomplice. Middle class, enjoying life, greedy, willing to do anything for a few more years. We drank together, I told him about my job. We gained each other's trust, and then I told him I couldn't do it alone. Which was completely true. You can't commit the perfect crime alone.
Today, he was sitting across from me at the dinner table, and he was eating. His wife and kids knew they couldn't be in the room when we were discussing business, so he had told them to eat when we were done and gone. I told him I wasn't hungry, and he just accepted. He trusted me, and I trusted him even more. I waited until he was done eating, and then he asked me, like I knew he would: "So, what do you have for us today?"
"Family father," I told him. "In a bout of depression-fueled rage, murders his wife and three kids, then commits suicide. The case will be open and shut. No investigation, no trial, no execution. I need you to produce a suicide note quickly, just scribble it down like you're in a hurry." I handed him pen and paper and watched him go to work.
As he finished, he said: "Wife and three kids, eh? I almost feel bad about this one. It could be... Me." I watched his face as the worrying realization ran across. He looked up at me. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..."
As his mouth rounded, pronouncing "to", I drew my gun before he could react, propped the barrel in his mouth and shot him. Then I closed his fingers around the weapon and let him drop down into his chair as naturally as possible. And then I had 5000 years more to live, all in a matter of seconds. His wife and kids came running as soon as they heard the gun shot. It was almost too easy. 4 head shots, point blank.
"He must've called them in to the kitchen for dinner," I told the investigators. "Then shot them, quickly and efficiently. He prepared enough food for the entire family, but only got to eat himself... A last supper of sorts, I suppose." The investigators all nodded and scribbled down my deductions on their little pads. "And then there's the suicide note... This case is almost too easy. Too many of these and our jobs are going to become very boring." The investigators chuckled grimly. I watched them smile. Without me, they wouldn't have a job.
The investigation lasted 10 minutes, then the process of cleaning up the scene started. That was all I needed to see. I had gotten away with it. Clean. Again. Beloved by the community.
I drove downtown, parked in a parking lot right outside of my favorite bar. Through the window, I saw a middle aged man. A family father, I guessed. He was overweight, and had more empty beers in front of him than anyone else. He was greedy, unhealthy, and most definitely in need of a few more years to live. I left the car, went inside, and asked him if I could sit next to him. He smiled brightly and bought me a beer. A happy drunk. A greedy man. Willing to do anything to indulge in this lifestyle without worrying about health complications.
"My name is Joseph," he said, and I took his stretched out hand. Joseph was going to be my newest accomplice. For the next 10,000 of so years worth of homicide. | I wrote a book about this back in high school called Soul Suckers.
It was interesting because the most precious things were babies. I had people develop the ability to ward off attackers while they sleep or are awake but until children were able to develop and understand, they were kept secret and away.
Anyways, it was more of an origin story and I wanted to write a sequel to it but I was distracted by another project. I mostly saw it become more of a Highlander type second book without the neat sword play.
Plus I thought readers wouldn't enjoy reading about a guy sucking the souls out of a camp of children with the detail that should have been added in the second star wars movie where Anakin killed all those young Jedi. |
Just seemed like an interesting concept. | [WP] In a world where killing someone means you gain the victim's lifespan, you are an executioner who has served great leaders for thousands of years. | I am a scholar.
I have spent many years at my studies. I am rightly regarded as the finest mind in my field. I have the rare privilege of effectively eternal life.
I am an executioner. I am the last—the rest have retired or been abolished long ago. Some are still living out their long lives, counting the days or trying to make something of their greatly extended lives.
At one time we were common. Some of us became kings ourselves. It was expected that an executioner, who must commit the sin of taking life, would use the rest of his time repenting by using his unusually lengthy lifespan to do good. Past executioners have been inventors, explorers, and thinkers. I think at this point our society would be many millennia behind where we are now without the executioners.
But I am the last. Even as society continues to kill, society began to reject our work. Even as they depend on our inventions and our ideas, they turn away from the creators.
For a time, we competed. The last regimes to hold on to the old ways had their pick of executioners, some of whom were not ready to relinquish their immortality and fought viciously for their work. Which is or is not ironic, depending on why you think we do what we do.
Now, I am the last. I am a wanted man, hidden away in this jungle. I am often sickly, often feverish, but I do not die. And every so often, I am rousted from my studies to take a life.
My studies are in crime and poverty and war. In ten times ten generations I haven't come up with my answer. I have seen empires rise and fall, and technologies change, but still have smelt the same blood for thousands of years. But even as I myself grow weary and disgusted of the executions, I continue my work so that I can have more years to find my answer. I will not stop until I have it.
I will find out why people kill and are killed, and my answer will be how to stop them.
In every language—some of them languages only I still remember—people have joked to me that I will never be out of a job. It's a double meaning, of course. They still tell that joke.
But to every person I kill, I make a promise: One day, I too will die. | I wrote a book about this back in high school called Soul Suckers.
It was interesting because the most precious things were babies. I had people develop the ability to ward off attackers while they sleep or are awake but until children were able to develop and understand, they were kept secret and away.
Anyways, it was more of an origin story and I wanted to write a sequel to it but I was distracted by another project. I mostly saw it become more of a Highlander type second book without the neat sword play.
Plus I thought readers wouldn't enjoy reading about a guy sucking the souls out of a camp of children with the detail that should have been added in the second star wars movie where Anakin killed all those young Jedi. |
Just seemed like an interesting concept. | [WP] In a world where killing someone means you gain the victim's lifespan, you are an executioner who has served great leaders for thousands of years. | I've always hated hospitals. The smell... I've smelt worse, but it felt caustic, washing through my nose and lungs. I hadn't needed to be in one for over 3,000 years, but this one smells the same as the last time.
Since taking a wife offered to me by President... Whatsisname. How jaded am I? Anyway, I took a wife, her name is Christine. Christine had been a favoured aide before a scandal had ousted glorious Whatsisname and been replaced by my current employer, his majesty the High King Jim. He didn't turn the empire into a monarchy, it's still (allegedly) democratic. He just liked the name.
This empire is weird.
During the revolution where Whatsisname was deposed and glorious everlasting Jim came in, Christine and I hid. Not very well mind, which is why I'm employed again, but for a while I was free.
We lived simply in a little town, one of the last. Everyone lived in the megatropolises nowadays. If I close my eyes, from the birth of the empire to now, I can almost watch them being built as though by autistic ants, in drips and drabs. They're not very inviting, I think. The people feel... Hungry. Desperate.
Aged.
We liked our little town. The little town liked us. We baked bread, and built fences, fished and rode quadcopters without helmets. We made friends with a Silent Sister who worked in the orphanage. We'd go on weekends to read to the children, and I would cook and tell stories.
The children often asked my age.
I never answered.
One child was more curious than the others. Curious or more persistent? Same bag really. She was Lisa, and would not be distracted from my age. She'd follow us home, calling out, begging to stay with us before Sister... Dammit what was her name?
Months passed before the revolution caught up.
I thought they would be coming to seek vengeance for the hundreds of their comrades I'd put to death.
They did, in a way. They wanted me to be their instrument now.
I refused.
They burnt my town to the ground, and killed everyone in it, including the children at the orphanage and Sister...
Lisa was with Christine and I when it happened. The comrades that I had refused earlier simply said they'd do that to every square inch in the empire I'd ever thought about, let alone visit, if I did not go with them. I acquiesced, after guaranteed Christine and Lisa's safety. We flew in their hoverbird back to the capital that evening.
Feels like a blur.
I resumed my life expanding, but soul destroying work.
I was going to live for another 10,000 years before, now I will live for 13,000.
I'm so tired.
Christine tells me that Lisa is ill,and we should have to take her to the hospital, I agree to meet them there.
I'll never like this smell.
I am sitting in front of a doctor, holding Lisa's hand. She looks frightened, but smiling through it. Christine is holding her other hand and speaking to the doctor. It seems like I'm hearing them from behind a brick wall.
Lisa has months to live.
How can we have intercranial WiFi and no cure for whatever she's got?
We leave the hospital. The girls are in a bad mood. I feel numb, as per usual really. We arrive at the trifloat I have been given by my majestic lord Jim and I am struck with an idea.
I give Lisa the keys and tell her to kill me. She refuses and Christine is crying but I don't care.
I am so tired.
| I wrote a book about this back in high school called Soul Suckers.
It was interesting because the most precious things were babies. I had people develop the ability to ward off attackers while they sleep or are awake but until children were able to develop and understand, they were kept secret and away.
Anyways, it was more of an origin story and I wanted to write a sequel to it but I was distracted by another project. I mostly saw it become more of a Highlander type second book without the neat sword play.
Plus I thought readers wouldn't enjoy reading about a guy sucking the souls out of a camp of children with the detail that should have been added in the second star wars movie where Anakin killed all those young Jedi. |
Just seemed like an interesting concept. | [WP] In a world where killing someone means you gain the victim's lifespan, you are an executioner who has served great leaders for thousands of years. | I am a scholar.
I have spent many years at my studies. I am rightly regarded as the finest mind in my field. I have the rare privilege of effectively eternal life.
I am an executioner. I am the last—the rest have retired or been abolished long ago. Some are still living out their long lives, counting the days or trying to make something of their greatly extended lives.
At one time we were common. Some of us became kings ourselves. It was expected that an executioner, who must commit the sin of taking life, would use the rest of his time repenting by using his unusually lengthy lifespan to do good. Past executioners have been inventors, explorers, and thinkers. I think at this point our society would be many millennia behind where we are now without the executioners.
But I am the last. Even as society continues to kill, society began to reject our work. Even as they depend on our inventions and our ideas, they turn away from the creators.
For a time, we competed. The last regimes to hold on to the old ways had their pick of executioners, some of whom were not ready to relinquish their immortality and fought viciously for their work. Which is or is not ironic, depending on why you think we do what we do.
Now, I am the last. I am a wanted man, hidden away in this jungle. I am often sickly, often feverish, but I do not die. And every so often, I am rousted from my studies to take a life.
My studies are in crime and poverty and war. In ten times ten generations I haven't come up with my answer. I have seen empires rise and fall, and technologies change, but still have smelt the same blood for thousands of years. But even as I myself grow weary and disgusted of the executions, I continue my work so that I can have more years to find my answer. I will not stop until I have it.
I will find out why people kill and are killed, and my answer will be how to stop them.
In every language—some of them languages only I still remember—people have joked to me that I will never be out of a job. It's a double meaning, of course. They still tell that joke.
But to every person I kill, I make a promise: One day, I too will die. | "So are you ready?"
"Aye, Martin, let me finish my drink. Steady my hands."
"Never understood that one. Might throw your aim off..."
"You're not the first to give me this talk, boy. The last guy was meaner than you."
"Henry? That oaf? He barely hit twenty."
"And you only hit twenty-four. Give it a rest. How are we for time."
"You're late."
"I'm not late."
"Fine, you still have ten minutes but I'd still get moving, I were you. Late as his charges, the great executioner, Ger-"
"- Don't use my name. You haven't earned my name."
"Well it's not like I'll ever hit sixty-three heads so you'll have to give me some other way to earn it."
"The greatest sin in this world is that you can only kill a man once. Your head isn't worth it otherwise. Grab Henry. Call the others."
"Unusual form of penance, as I keep telling-"
"Oh shut up and do it."
_______
The sun shone down from directly overhead. I stepped down from the marble archway and into the courtyard. Much of the house was in disuse, but the courtyard was impeccably clean. Whitewashed stone surrounding the stage and surrounded itself by tall iron fencing. Pink and lavender flowers hung from the window sills and crept along the yellowed walls. I tended the garden with great care as Anna enjoyed seeing it in bloom.
*A man must have hobbies or a man is insane.*
I used to think so, anyway. Time has muddled things, somewhat.
Atop the stage stood a stone, and atop the stone sat an axe.
From beyond the fence, the crowd gathered. Martin stood a ways from Henry as usual. Anna stood at the fence with sorrow in her eyes. Timothy stood in the window above. The others found places inside the yard. None disturbed the flowers.
On another stage amidst the outer crowd, the Warden listed the day's proceedings.
"Hamill Louis: For murder, three counts."
*Blade sharp, no nicks. Don't want to catch halfway through. Clean cut.*
"Francis Lytton: Murder, one count. Treason, one count."
*Hands calm, arms relaxed. Do not twitch. Clean cut.*
"Marie Baker: Theft of Royal property."
*Breath. Just breath. Business as usual. No mistakes. The last mistake is still following me around. No mistakes.*
Louis was called, then Lytton. The axe fell, their heads came clean, and I felt the renewal of their essence.
Baker was called.
A girl. Hardly a teen. She stood tall and looked me in the eye, but her feet moved stiffly and she was beginning to freeze up. The guard shoved her forward, but it was half hearted. He didn't seem to want her here either.
As he knelt her at the stone, he whispered to me.
"She's innocent. We all know it but the Countess wants an example made and we cannot appeal. You're the cleanest option. I'm sorry."
My hands shook. I took my station. The axe went up and came back down. The cut wasn't clean.
I stood and looked her in the eye as she faded, then I looked to my left to find her again.
_____
"Am I dead?"
"Yes dear. I'm sorry. You'll be with me for a while. There was nothing I could do for you otherwise."
"What am I to do now?"
"Whatever you like. I'll cater to you. Anna likes gardening, Timothy likes pottery. They can no longer hold the tools but I do what I can in their place."
"But you live here alone, don't you? The guards don't let anyone in. Such a large house and I've never seen a visitor."
"You will soon meet the company I keep. Anna and Timothy are safe. Martin and Henry are not. The others will make themselves known when they will it."
"Can I go home?"
"No, dear. Not any more."
"Will you tell me your name?"
"Gerald. I am Gerald." |
Just seemed like an interesting concept. | [WP] In a world where killing someone means you gain the victim's lifespan, you are an executioner who has served great leaders for thousands of years. | I've always hated hospitals. The smell... I've smelt worse, but it felt caustic, washing through my nose and lungs. I hadn't needed to be in one for over 3,000 years, but this one smells the same as the last time.
Since taking a wife offered to me by President... Whatsisname. How jaded am I? Anyway, I took a wife, her name is Christine. Christine had been a favoured aide before a scandal had ousted glorious Whatsisname and been replaced by my current employer, his majesty the High King Jim. He didn't turn the empire into a monarchy, it's still (allegedly) democratic. He just liked the name.
This empire is weird.
During the revolution where Whatsisname was deposed and glorious everlasting Jim came in, Christine and I hid. Not very well mind, which is why I'm employed again, but for a while I was free.
We lived simply in a little town, one of the last. Everyone lived in the megatropolises nowadays. If I close my eyes, from the birth of the empire to now, I can almost watch them being built as though by autistic ants, in drips and drabs. They're not very inviting, I think. The people feel... Hungry. Desperate.
Aged.
We liked our little town. The little town liked us. We baked bread, and built fences, fished and rode quadcopters without helmets. We made friends with a Silent Sister who worked in the orphanage. We'd go on weekends to read to the children, and I would cook and tell stories.
The children often asked my age.
I never answered.
One child was more curious than the others. Curious or more persistent? Same bag really. She was Lisa, and would not be distracted from my age. She'd follow us home, calling out, begging to stay with us before Sister... Dammit what was her name?
Months passed before the revolution caught up.
I thought they would be coming to seek vengeance for the hundreds of their comrades I'd put to death.
They did, in a way. They wanted me to be their instrument now.
I refused.
They burnt my town to the ground, and killed everyone in it, including the children at the orphanage and Sister...
Lisa was with Christine and I when it happened. The comrades that I had refused earlier simply said they'd do that to every square inch in the empire I'd ever thought about, let alone visit, if I did not go with them. I acquiesced, after guaranteed Christine and Lisa's safety. We flew in their hoverbird back to the capital that evening.
Feels like a blur.
I resumed my life expanding, but soul destroying work.
I was going to live for another 10,000 years before, now I will live for 13,000.
I'm so tired.
Christine tells me that Lisa is ill,and we should have to take her to the hospital, I agree to meet them there.
I'll never like this smell.
I am sitting in front of a doctor, holding Lisa's hand. She looks frightened, but smiling through it. Christine is holding her other hand and speaking to the doctor. It seems like I'm hearing them from behind a brick wall.
Lisa has months to live.
How can we have intercranial WiFi and no cure for whatever she's got?
We leave the hospital. The girls are in a bad mood. I feel numb, as per usual really. We arrive at the trifloat I have been given by my majestic lord Jim and I am struck with an idea.
I give Lisa the keys and tell her to kill me. She refuses and Christine is crying but I don't care.
I am so tired.
| "So are you ready?"
"Aye, Martin, let me finish my drink. Steady my hands."
"Never understood that one. Might throw your aim off..."
"You're not the first to give me this talk, boy. The last guy was meaner than you."
"Henry? That oaf? He barely hit twenty."
"And you only hit twenty-four. Give it a rest. How are we for time."
"You're late."
"I'm not late."
"Fine, you still have ten minutes but I'd still get moving, I were you. Late as his charges, the great executioner, Ger-"
"- Don't use my name. You haven't earned my name."
"Well it's not like I'll ever hit sixty-three heads so you'll have to give me some other way to earn it."
"The greatest sin in this world is that you can only kill a man once. Your head isn't worth it otherwise. Grab Henry. Call the others."
"Unusual form of penance, as I keep telling-"
"Oh shut up and do it."
_______
The sun shone down from directly overhead. I stepped down from the marble archway and into the courtyard. Much of the house was in disuse, but the courtyard was impeccably clean. Whitewashed stone surrounding the stage and surrounded itself by tall iron fencing. Pink and lavender flowers hung from the window sills and crept along the yellowed walls. I tended the garden with great care as Anna enjoyed seeing it in bloom.
*A man must have hobbies or a man is insane.*
I used to think so, anyway. Time has muddled things, somewhat.
Atop the stage stood a stone, and atop the stone sat an axe.
From beyond the fence, the crowd gathered. Martin stood a ways from Henry as usual. Anna stood at the fence with sorrow in her eyes. Timothy stood in the window above. The others found places inside the yard. None disturbed the flowers.
On another stage amidst the outer crowd, the Warden listed the day's proceedings.
"Hamill Louis: For murder, three counts."
*Blade sharp, no nicks. Don't want to catch halfway through. Clean cut.*
"Francis Lytton: Murder, one count. Treason, one count."
*Hands calm, arms relaxed. Do not twitch. Clean cut.*
"Marie Baker: Theft of Royal property."
*Breath. Just breath. Business as usual. No mistakes. The last mistake is still following me around. No mistakes.*
Louis was called, then Lytton. The axe fell, their heads came clean, and I felt the renewal of their essence.
Baker was called.
A girl. Hardly a teen. She stood tall and looked me in the eye, but her feet moved stiffly and she was beginning to freeze up. The guard shoved her forward, but it was half hearted. He didn't seem to want her here either.
As he knelt her at the stone, he whispered to me.
"She's innocent. We all know it but the Countess wants an example made and we cannot appeal. You're the cleanest option. I'm sorry."
My hands shook. I took my station. The axe went up and came back down. The cut wasn't clean.
I stood and looked her in the eye as she faded, then I looked to my left to find her again.
_____
"Am I dead?"
"Yes dear. I'm sorry. You'll be with me for a while. There was nothing I could do for you otherwise."
"What am I to do now?"
"Whatever you like. I'll cater to you. Anna likes gardening, Timothy likes pottery. They can no longer hold the tools but I do what I can in their place."
"But you live here alone, don't you? The guards don't let anyone in. Such a large house and I've never seen a visitor."
"You will soon meet the company I keep. Anna and Timothy are safe. Martin and Henry are not. The others will make themselves known when they will it."
"Can I go home?"
"No, dear. Not any more."
"Will you tell me your name?"
"Gerald. I am Gerald." |
Just seemed like an interesting concept. | [WP] In a world where killing someone means you gain the victim's lifespan, you are an executioner who has served great leaders for thousands of years. | ##*Yet Death May Come*
I am not the man I once was.
It's easy enough to say. I have a driver's license, a Social Security number, fingerprints in police records here and there. These past couple decades, *having* a footprint was less conspicuous than the opposite. It was an identity. So what. I'd had many over the years. This one, too, would pass.
There was no outward sign - that was part of its brilliance. I hadn't realized it myself until my aging slowed, and even then, hadn't determined its source until I looked around.
It wasn't an easy hypothesis to test. Soldiers died in combat. Murderers were executed. This was the way nature closed the loop - those who exploited this mythic rule, would die to it.
I was fifteen when I killed my first man, a thief, as a temple guard in the Temple of the Storm-God. When the Assyrians invaded that same year, I was taken back to Nineveh to as a palace servant. When I caught an elderly servant stealing from the king, he ordered me to execute him. That kill made me into a palace guard, and several more kills made me one of the royal guard for Tiglath-Pileser III. He was a harsh man, but a good ruler, and a great general.
I was well-on in years when age took him. His son, Shalmaneser, noted many times my youth in spite of my appearance - for I was showing grey, but never felt it. Soon after, the grey started receding, and my wife marveled at how, year after year, I seemed to get younger. To my fortune, the king was too busy being overthrown by his brother to notice. I served him as well, though he was progressively more brutal than those before. Every day, rebels were brought to kneel before him, and it was I whom he ordered to kill them. It was in those years that I stopped being a guard. It was also in those years that I realized the only other people who seemed to age as I, were my fellow executioners.
After my wife passed, I cared little for the tribulations of the king. I did his bidding, and I lived well. And lived long. He died while away at war. His son was murdered by *his* son. I served many kings. After a century of service, I saw the empire fall, and I departed for Babylon to serve under Nebuchadnezzar. I fell in love. I lived on. I aged, I youthed. Never were my wives with child - perhaps the price for my immortality.
Immortal, yes, but not invincible. After all, my fellow executioners expired - at my hand. I did not share their loyalty to the empire, and I did not need tales spreading of the ageless executioner.
I learned to speak and write many languages. I traveled to Greece, and Rome centuries after that, when I saw the winds of history changing. My fair skin, a gift of my Lebanese heritage, hid me. When stories came of a man who'd been executed in Jerusalem only to return from the dead, I immediately returned to investigate, but I found nothing. I found his followers, but no trace of the man who defied death.
*****
I am not the man I once was.
I once was a simple man. Now, I have seen civilization across the horizon of time. I speak every major language througout history. I have loved many times, and lost just as many. I age, and I quietly let my love slip away as I somehow get younger. There were some that asked me to put an end to their suffering, but I always refuse - I dare not use their deaths to my benefit.
Maybe the cycle will break. When hanging waned as the preferred method of execution, I could tell my profession was dying out - a fitting choice of words. Now, with lethal injection finally disappearing as well, maybe I could stop killing. I had no idea how long I could survive on the lives I'd taken, but I was willing to find out. | There was a sharp pinch in my side and I shot awake. At the foot of my bed was the young Prince Keith, half his face shrouded by the off set light in my room, the other half had a smirk that made me sick.
"Why are you in here?" I asked Keith as I tried to sit up from my bed, but the sharp pain in my abdomen grew stronger like I was on fire inside.
Looking down at the source of my agony I saw a pool of blood, and now I understood why Keith was smirking. "Little shit..." I spit out of my mouth with a glob of blood and saliva.
Finally it was my turn, 4300 years give or take a century and I finally got done in, by a 15 year old more interested in video games than girls. Of course he was named Keith, I should have known it would be a Keith... |
Just seemed like an interesting concept. | [WP] In a world where killing someone means you gain the victim's lifespan, you are an executioner who has served great leaders for thousands of years. | "Frank J. Smith, serial killer, convicted for killing 3 families including 5 children under the age of 5," the judge read from his papers in his most official and matter-of-fact tone. I was excited. Serial killers were rare, but meant I didn't have to worry about anything for a long time. 5 kids under the age of 5 was 5 almost entire life spans. I would be able to add at least a millennium to my life span after today's execution. Or, at least that's what I wanted everyone to think.
"I'm innocent!" cried Frank. The judge didn't even look at him.
"You're just scared."
For a brief second, I got eye contact with Frank as I filled his veins with poison. A rare phenomenon. One that would haunt me for days. Because I knew he was innocent.
In fact, there hadn't been a serial killer on the loose in several centuries. Not as far as I was concerned, anyway. Except, of course, for me. But the thousands of years of in-field experience had taught me how to get away with it, how to frame someone while leaving no evidence behind. And the thousands of years of loyal service to high ranking people had gotten me a lot of trust - I practically led most of the investigations.
Jack, my newest accomplice, sat across from me at the dinner table in his house. Together, we had accumulated approximately 10,000 years by murdering innocent people and then having me execute other innocent people that we had framed. I had met him in a bar and gotten him drunk. I spotted him from all the way outside. I had done this a thousand times. He was the perfect accomplice. Middle class, enjoying life, greedy, willing to do anything for a few more years. We drank together, I told him about my job. We gained each other's trust, and then I told him I couldn't do it alone. Which was completely true. You can't commit the perfect crime alone.
Today, he was sitting across from me at the dinner table, and he was eating. His wife and kids knew they couldn't be in the room when we were discussing business, so he had told them to eat when we were done and gone. I told him I wasn't hungry, and he just accepted. He trusted me, and I trusted him even more. I waited until he was done eating, and then he asked me, like I knew he would: "So, what do you have for us today?"
"Family father," I told him. "In a bout of depression-fueled rage, murders his wife and three kids, then commits suicide. The case will be open and shut. No investigation, no trial, no execution. I need you to produce a suicide note quickly, just scribble it down like you're in a hurry." I handed him pen and paper and watched him go to work.
As he finished, he said: "Wife and three kids, eh? I almost feel bad about this one. It could be... Me." I watched his face as the worrying realization ran across. He looked up at me. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..."
As his mouth rounded, pronouncing "to", I drew my gun before he could react, propped the barrel in his mouth and shot him. Then I closed his fingers around the weapon and let him drop down into his chair as naturally as possible. And then I had 5000 years more to live, all in a matter of seconds. His wife and kids came running as soon as they heard the gun shot. It was almost too easy. 4 head shots, point blank.
"He must've called them in to the kitchen for dinner," I told the investigators. "Then shot them, quickly and efficiently. He prepared enough food for the entire family, but only got to eat himself... A last supper of sorts, I suppose." The investigators all nodded and scribbled down my deductions on their little pads. "And then there's the suicide note... This case is almost too easy. Too many of these and our jobs are going to become very boring." The investigators chuckled grimly. I watched them smile. Without me, they wouldn't have a job.
The investigation lasted 10 minutes, then the process of cleaning up the scene started. That was all I needed to see. I had gotten away with it. Clean. Again. Beloved by the community.
I drove downtown, parked in a parking lot right outside of my favorite bar. Through the window, I saw a middle aged man. A family father, I guessed. He was overweight, and had more empty beers in front of him than anyone else. He was greedy, unhealthy, and most definitely in need of a few more years to live. I left the car, went inside, and asked him if I could sit next to him. He smiled brightly and bought me a beer. A happy drunk. A greedy man. Willing to do anything to indulge in this lifestyle without worrying about health complications.
"My name is Joseph," he said, and I took his stretched out hand. Joseph was going to be my newest accomplice. For the next 10,000 of so years worth of homicide. | There was a sharp pinch in my side and I shot awake. At the foot of my bed was the young Prince Keith, half his face shrouded by the off set light in my room, the other half had a smirk that made me sick.
"Why are you in here?" I asked Keith as I tried to sit up from my bed, but the sharp pain in my abdomen grew stronger like I was on fire inside.
Looking down at the source of my agony I saw a pool of blood, and now I understood why Keith was smirking. "Little shit..." I spit out of my mouth with a glob of blood and saliva.
Finally it was my turn, 4300 years give or take a century and I finally got done in, by a 15 year old more interested in video games than girls. Of course he was named Keith, I should have known it would be a Keith... |
Just seemed like an interesting concept. | [WP] In a world where killing someone means you gain the victim's lifespan, you are an executioner who has served great leaders for thousands of years. | I am a scholar.
I have spent many years at my studies. I am rightly regarded as the finest mind in my field. I have the rare privilege of effectively eternal life.
I am an executioner. I am the last—the rest have retired or been abolished long ago. Some are still living out their long lives, counting the days or trying to make something of their greatly extended lives.
At one time we were common. Some of us became kings ourselves. It was expected that an executioner, who must commit the sin of taking life, would use the rest of his time repenting by using his unusually lengthy lifespan to do good. Past executioners have been inventors, explorers, and thinkers. I think at this point our society would be many millennia behind where we are now without the executioners.
But I am the last. Even as society continues to kill, society began to reject our work. Even as they depend on our inventions and our ideas, they turn away from the creators.
For a time, we competed. The last regimes to hold on to the old ways had their pick of executioners, some of whom were not ready to relinquish their immortality and fought viciously for their work. Which is or is not ironic, depending on why you think we do what we do.
Now, I am the last. I am a wanted man, hidden away in this jungle. I am often sickly, often feverish, but I do not die. And every so often, I am rousted from my studies to take a life.
My studies are in crime and poverty and war. In ten times ten generations I haven't come up with my answer. I have seen empires rise and fall, and technologies change, but still have smelt the same blood for thousands of years. But even as I myself grow weary and disgusted of the executions, I continue my work so that I can have more years to find my answer. I will not stop until I have it.
I will find out why people kill and are killed, and my answer will be how to stop them.
In every language—some of them languages only I still remember—people have joked to me that I will never be out of a job. It's a double meaning, of course. They still tell that joke.
But to every person I kill, I make a promise: One day, I too will die. | There was a sharp pinch in my side and I shot awake. At the foot of my bed was the young Prince Keith, half his face shrouded by the off set light in my room, the other half had a smirk that made me sick.
"Why are you in here?" I asked Keith as I tried to sit up from my bed, but the sharp pain in my abdomen grew stronger like I was on fire inside.
Looking down at the source of my agony I saw a pool of blood, and now I understood why Keith was smirking. "Little shit..." I spit out of my mouth with a glob of blood and saliva.
Finally it was my turn, 4300 years give or take a century and I finally got done in, by a 15 year old more interested in video games than girls. Of course he was named Keith, I should have known it would be a Keith... |
Just seemed like an interesting concept. | [WP] In a world where killing someone means you gain the victim's lifespan, you are an executioner who has served great leaders for thousands of years. | It's never occurred to me to write any fiction. Or anything creatively at all. I've followed this sub and think I'll start posting my stupid attempts... maybe they will improve :) anyways, here's mine:
"I find you guilty."
A moment of silence passes through the courtroom. All eyes, including the magistrates', are fixed upon you. Some of these eyes hold hateful stares. Others looked shocked. Some, too young to understand what is happening, simply look curious. Maybe even amused.
"Though it pains me to hand down such a sentence to one who has had such a lengthy and esteemed career, especially one so close to the court, our laws are absolute. This court finds you guilty of murder. As such, you will receive the only punishment that we have for such an unspeakable crime. Death."
More silence. More eyes.
Long ago, maybe even just decades ago, you might have exploded into an indignant rant. You might have tried to explain yourself. Perhaps you could have made one last desperate plea to the courtroom to explain your case. To save yourself.
Not now.
Now you understood that somethings are long-lasting, while others are eternal. A life, if one is lucky, can be the former. Deceit, politics, envy... These are the latter.
"Because of your position relating to the court and the seriousness of the charges, the king himself has insisted upon carrying out your execution. May you accept your fate and come to peace with death."
Days later, your head finally rests upon the familiar stump where executions are carried out. As the hood is removed, the sun blinds your eyes momentarily. When your eyes adjust and are able to focus upon the king standing over you, your eyes aren't drawn to the mighty axe slung over his shoulder. The axe you've spent lifetimes caring for and maintaining. Instead your eyes are drawn to his smile. You smile yourself, just before the axe comes down. For you recognize this smile as the the same expectant smile that crossed your face every time you raised that axe yourself.
| There was a sharp pinch in my side and I shot awake. At the foot of my bed was the young Prince Keith, half his face shrouded by the off set light in my room, the other half had a smirk that made me sick.
"Why are you in here?" I asked Keith as I tried to sit up from my bed, but the sharp pain in my abdomen grew stronger like I was on fire inside.
Looking down at the source of my agony I saw a pool of blood, and now I understood why Keith was smirking. "Little shit..." I spit out of my mouth with a glob of blood and saliva.
Finally it was my turn, 4300 years give or take a century and I finally got done in, by a 15 year old more interested in video games than girls. Of course he was named Keith, I should have known it would be a Keith... |
Just seemed like an interesting concept. | [WP] In a world where killing someone means you gain the victim's lifespan, you are an executioner who has served great leaders for thousands of years. | I've always hated hospitals. The smell... I've smelt worse, but it felt caustic, washing through my nose and lungs. I hadn't needed to be in one for over 3,000 years, but this one smells the same as the last time.
Since taking a wife offered to me by President... Whatsisname. How jaded am I? Anyway, I took a wife, her name is Christine. Christine had been a favoured aide before a scandal had ousted glorious Whatsisname and been replaced by my current employer, his majesty the High King Jim. He didn't turn the empire into a monarchy, it's still (allegedly) democratic. He just liked the name.
This empire is weird.
During the revolution where Whatsisname was deposed and glorious everlasting Jim came in, Christine and I hid. Not very well mind, which is why I'm employed again, but for a while I was free.
We lived simply in a little town, one of the last. Everyone lived in the megatropolises nowadays. If I close my eyes, from the birth of the empire to now, I can almost watch them being built as though by autistic ants, in drips and drabs. They're not very inviting, I think. The people feel... Hungry. Desperate.
Aged.
We liked our little town. The little town liked us. We baked bread, and built fences, fished and rode quadcopters without helmets. We made friends with a Silent Sister who worked in the orphanage. We'd go on weekends to read to the children, and I would cook and tell stories.
The children often asked my age.
I never answered.
One child was more curious than the others. Curious or more persistent? Same bag really. She was Lisa, and would not be distracted from my age. She'd follow us home, calling out, begging to stay with us before Sister... Dammit what was her name?
Months passed before the revolution caught up.
I thought they would be coming to seek vengeance for the hundreds of their comrades I'd put to death.
They did, in a way. They wanted me to be their instrument now.
I refused.
They burnt my town to the ground, and killed everyone in it, including the children at the orphanage and Sister...
Lisa was with Christine and I when it happened. The comrades that I had refused earlier simply said they'd do that to every square inch in the empire I'd ever thought about, let alone visit, if I did not go with them. I acquiesced, after guaranteed Christine and Lisa's safety. We flew in their hoverbird back to the capital that evening.
Feels like a blur.
I resumed my life expanding, but soul destroying work.
I was going to live for another 10,000 years before, now I will live for 13,000.
I'm so tired.
Christine tells me that Lisa is ill,and we should have to take her to the hospital, I agree to meet them there.
I'll never like this smell.
I am sitting in front of a doctor, holding Lisa's hand. She looks frightened, but smiling through it. Christine is holding her other hand and speaking to the doctor. It seems like I'm hearing them from behind a brick wall.
Lisa has months to live.
How can we have intercranial WiFi and no cure for whatever she's got?
We leave the hospital. The girls are in a bad mood. I feel numb, as per usual really. We arrive at the trifloat I have been given by my majestic lord Jim and I am struck with an idea.
I give Lisa the keys and tell her to kill me. She refuses and Christine is crying but I don't care.
I am so tired.
| There was a sharp pinch in my side and I shot awake. At the foot of my bed was the young Prince Keith, half his face shrouded by the off set light in my room, the other half had a smirk that made me sick.
"Why are you in here?" I asked Keith as I tried to sit up from my bed, but the sharp pain in my abdomen grew stronger like I was on fire inside.
Looking down at the source of my agony I saw a pool of blood, and now I understood why Keith was smirking. "Little shit..." I spit out of my mouth with a glob of blood and saliva.
Finally it was my turn, 4300 years give or take a century and I finally got done in, by a 15 year old more interested in video games than girls. Of course he was named Keith, I should have known it would be a Keith... |
Just seemed like an interesting concept. | [WP] In a world where killing someone means you gain the victim's lifespan, you are an executioner who has served great leaders for thousands of years. | "At least $16,000." The old man said.
"No, I won't go higher than $10,000." Richard Brooks said, his tone was intimidating.
Mr. Carter looked at me, his old, tired eyes were pleading.
"Mr. Brooks," I said to the businessman, "my client was diagnosed at only Stage 2. He will reasonably have anywhere between six to twelve months. It is a fair rate at $16,000. Would you consider meeting at $15,000?" I had previously discussed with Mr. Carter that he was willing to go as low as $12,000. Though it was always wise to start higher.
Richard mused, then asked for the paperwork. I handed him the paper, detailing the diagnosis of Mr. Carter. It was common in today's civilized age for someone with a terminal illness to sell their remaining time, or give it away. I had witnessed and been the hand of many executions. I lived in the dark times, when people died in the middle of their lives. Nowadays, every moment I am dearly grateful for how humane my job has become.
"I'll settle at $14,000. That's just over a month of pay for me, so I can handle the risk." Richard said, interrupting my thoughts.
I glanced at Mr. Carter for his approval, and with it I state "Deal." As Richard is signing the papers, I think of how a man such as himself would set aside several months salary each year to buy about the same amount of time back. In essence, he would be able to live forever, buying the time as needed. It was always a risk though, you never quite knew how much time a person who was ill had left, but it was typically worth the risk. The money would go to Mr. Carter's descendants and Mr. Brooks could continue his endless chase for eternity. However, I couldn't blame him. I was doing the same thing; a portion of my clients dealt directly with me. I would pay them with the money from my other clients. After living so long, I still wasn't ready to go. I looked at Richard who had just finished signing the papers, thinking to myself, even though he was likely hundreds of years old, he was only a percentage of my age. To me, he was a child.
Smiling, Richard handed me the papers.
"Be here tomorrow at 8 pm sharp." I said grimly, "You'll need to be the one to start the injection."
"It was a pleasure doing business with you Mr. Carter and Ex. Marcius!" Richard said as he shook our hands. After he left the room, I turned to Mr. Carter, who looked weak.
"It will be alright, Mr. Carter, your son will receive your share in less than a week. Enjoy your remaining time with your family and have a good last meal." I said, trying to hide the shiver in my voice. Even after so many, especially ones I caused, deaths were still painful for me. I'm only human.
Mr. Carter smiled for a moment, "Thank you so much Marcius. I truly wasn't expecting to get so much. My son will be able to survive, even if he isn't happy with my decision. Just ensure he accepts the money. Please send them in on your way out."
I nodded then headed out of the room. I gave the family my condolences and sent them in. Samuel Carter, the son, saw me to the door.
"Thank you for what you are doing," he stated, "it is a hard time, but this money will save my family."
"It pleases me to help." I lie. "I will arrive here tomorrow at 6 pm sharp."
With another thanks, Samuel closes the door behind me. As I walk to my car, I think to myself of how there was no pleasure in my job. That luxury ceased to be over a thousand years ago. | There was a sharp pinch in my side and I shot awake. At the foot of my bed was the young Prince Keith, half his face shrouded by the off set light in my room, the other half had a smirk that made me sick.
"Why are you in here?" I asked Keith as I tried to sit up from my bed, but the sharp pain in my abdomen grew stronger like I was on fire inside.
Looking down at the source of my agony I saw a pool of blood, and now I understood why Keith was smirking. "Little shit..." I spit out of my mouth with a glob of blood and saliva.
Finally it was my turn, 4300 years give or take a century and I finally got done in, by a 15 year old more interested in video games than girls. Of course he was named Keith, I should have known it would be a Keith... |
Just seemed like an interesting concept. | [WP] In a world where killing someone means you gain the victim's lifespan, you are an executioner who has served great leaders for thousands of years. | "In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth," lectured the preacher.
*And I'm the Angel of Death. Well.. I kinda am.. Only when I need to be.*
"and there was li-"
"There he is!" interrupted a man armed from head to toe as he breached the doors leading a squad full of men dressed in a similar fashion. The churchgoers were frightened but somehow managed to leave the building in a timely manner. It was just the man and the agents inside and around the church once the panic settled.
*That was quicker than I expected. Bravo.*
"Put your hands where we can see them and don't make any sudden movements!" shouted the officer. Kane did as he was told, yet this made the agents tense up even more.
"Why don't we just shoot him?!"
"I bet we walked right into a trap!!"
"If I wanted you all dead you'd be dead by now," Kane said calmly. The agents suddenly had an even more difficult time keeping together at this point. Kane stood from his chair, slowly, put his hands in the air and then behind his head and knelt down. He wasn't immortal, after all.
There was a deafening silence in the room. No one moved. No one spoke. Finally an engine was heard coming to a stop in front of the building. A door shuts. And footsteps.
*This is new. Sheriff? Head of the FBI? Maybe I'll be taken in as a secret agent. Just like the movies.*
The crowd of agents split as the mysterious person walked through them.
"Kane Grey. Or do you prefer Peter Fisher? Or Samson Armstrong? Whatever you go by now, you're probably the toughest person I've had the pleasure of tracking down; and I'm very skilled at my trade."
"You can call me whatever you like, it doesn't matter much anyway. You don't sound like a one of the feds and they did't look like government agents. You a bounty hunter? Vigilante? Tony Stark?"
"Not quite. I am affiliated with the government, yes. However, I don't play by their rules. You could say I have them, 'by the balls'."
Kane chuckled. He knew now.
"So I guess you're the yin to my yang then, huh? Does that make me the bad guy?"
"I don't think you're a bad guy, no. You're far from that. I've seen your victims. They were all victimizers. Victimizers who were given second chances and didn't right their wrongs. This is precisely why I've come to you."
"You here to give me some sort of medal or something? Do you want me to join you in your quest to off the baddies? Come on man, can't you see I found Jesus and shit. I'm a new person, I don't do that anymore," Kane taunted.
"I find that hard to believe. We both share something similar, Kane. It's that we have a soft spot for them. We both are too afraid to let them rule themselves. Our intervening is what keeps the world running 'round. Now, you can join me and fight the good fight, or you can join the victimizers and be of no use to anyone."
*"By the balls." One way to put it.*
"Look. I think I've lived long enough. Death by my own hand is not an option, and neither is death to the state. So how about you let me know what I already think I know and then we work out a deal?"
"You don't have much time for deciding, Mr. Grey."
"It's a pretty big choice to make. Cut me some slack."
"You've got five minutes," said the stranger as she turned to her men.
"The perimeter has been secured, m'am."
"I told you; if I wanted you dead, you'd be dead."
"Less talking more thinking Mr. Grey."
"Listen, whatever-your-name-is, I'm kind of deciding what to do with the rest of my life."
"It sounds like you know what to do, you just don't want to do it. Are you afraid?"
"I'm not afraid."
"Then?"
"Fine. I'll go."
"Excellent choice, you won't regret it."
--- | There was a sharp pinch in my side and I shot awake. At the foot of my bed was the young Prince Keith, half his face shrouded by the off set light in my room, the other half had a smirk that made me sick.
"Why are you in here?" I asked Keith as I tried to sit up from my bed, but the sharp pain in my abdomen grew stronger like I was on fire inside.
Looking down at the source of my agony I saw a pool of blood, and now I understood why Keith was smirking. "Little shit..." I spit out of my mouth with a glob of blood and saliva.
Finally it was my turn, 4300 years give or take a century and I finally got done in, by a 15 year old more interested in video games than girls. Of course he was named Keith, I should have known it would be a Keith... |
Just seemed like an interesting concept. | [WP] In a world where killing someone means you gain the victim's lifespan, you are an executioner who has served great leaders for thousands of years. | I saw his lips move as he was telling me the reasoning behind the task. I wasn't paying attention, my eyes wandered the oddly shaped office. Oh how the times have changed. There used to be many of us around the world, we've gone under many names, my favourite one was executioner although that time has since passed. I've been known as anything from a viking to a hangman.
Where a life had to be taken there we were. Not everyone could do it and those of us who could, we were valued due to our knowledge and experience. If we took a life we'd absorb the remaining lifespan of the victim but again times changed. We were deemed outlaws and hunted. We had to work in the shadows. Assassins was another name given to us. During my lifetime I had seen empires rise and fall, cities being built from the first hut to enormous skylines, I had learned a hundred languages and to fight with any weapon possible. But not a lot mattered in today's society, most of us were in hiding. The younger ones entered the armies of countries for the chance to kill. Some would panic as their lifespan came towards an end and in their panic commit murders. They didn't last very long in the modern society, too many rules and rights, people cared so much nowadays if a life was taken, it didn't make it any easier for us.
"His name is Rile F. Daltho, do you know it?"
I snapped out of my thought pattern and looked at the man. He had dark skin and a serious face. Rile, I knew that name and many others the man had used. He had fought for the Persians once upon a time and for the Germans a few decades back. He was the one of very few with a lifespan as lengthy as mine but he wasn't patient. I had seen him fuel the words and materials needed to start wars just so he could fight. He'd cover up for himself and disappear afterwards.
"Yeah I know him, our paths have crossed once or twice, but this is no ordinary man."
"I know, but it must be done and that's why I've asked you in here,. You know what he's capable of and what he's doing."
There was a crisis going on in Europe and I had suspected that Rile might be behind this. He was the main reason of most “evil” things during the last century. Humanity had worked further and further away from the savagery and brutality that was in the olden days, making it hard for the like of me and Rile to progress our lifespan. I found alternative ways but he never had the patience. If a war broke out I would be able to join in and get a few years added but in wars there was always risks. I had become used to working in the shadows.
"And if I do this, will you grant me what I ask for?"
The man turned his back towards me and stared out the window. This was always the toughest moment for them. A life had to be taken to save thousands if not more, but it would also cost them. The man sighed before turning to me.
"You'll be put to permanently work with the abortions."
Even though most of us had been forgotten, there were still extremely strict background checks when working with abortions to prevent us from accessing all that lifespan, some places even banned abortions just to keep it under control.
"I'll find Rile, don't worry Mr. President"
I grinned as I saw the discomfort on the man's face before I turned and walked out the oval shaped room to find the man who could grant my access to immortality. | There was a sharp pinch in my side and I shot awake. At the foot of my bed was the young Prince Keith, half his face shrouded by the off set light in my room, the other half had a smirk that made me sick.
"Why are you in here?" I asked Keith as I tried to sit up from my bed, but the sharp pain in my abdomen grew stronger like I was on fire inside.
Looking down at the source of my agony I saw a pool of blood, and now I understood why Keith was smirking. "Little shit..." I spit out of my mouth with a glob of blood and saliva.
Finally it was my turn, 4300 years give or take a century and I finally got done in, by a 15 year old more interested in video games than girls. Of course he was named Keith, I should have known it would be a Keith... |
Just seemed like an interesting concept. | [WP] In a world where killing someone means you gain the victim's lifespan, you are an executioner who has served great leaders for thousands of years. | ##*Yet Death May Come*
I am not the man I once was.
It's easy enough to say. I have a driver's license, a Social Security number, fingerprints in police records here and there. These past couple decades, *having* a footprint was less conspicuous than the opposite. It was an identity. So what. I'd had many over the years. This one, too, would pass.
There was no outward sign - that was part of its brilliance. I hadn't realized it myself until my aging slowed, and even then, hadn't determined its source until I looked around.
It wasn't an easy hypothesis to test. Soldiers died in combat. Murderers were executed. This was the way nature closed the loop - those who exploited this mythic rule, would die to it.
I was fifteen when I killed my first man, a thief, as a temple guard in the Temple of the Storm-God. When the Assyrians invaded that same year, I was taken back to Nineveh to as a palace servant. When I caught an elderly servant stealing from the king, he ordered me to execute him. That kill made me into a palace guard, and several more kills made me one of the royal guard for Tiglath-Pileser III. He was a harsh man, but a good ruler, and a great general.
I was well-on in years when age took him. His son, Shalmaneser, noted many times my youth in spite of my appearance - for I was showing grey, but never felt it. Soon after, the grey started receding, and my wife marveled at how, year after year, I seemed to get younger. To my fortune, the king was too busy being overthrown by his brother to notice. I served him as well, though he was progressively more brutal than those before. Every day, rebels were brought to kneel before him, and it was I whom he ordered to kill them. It was in those years that I stopped being a guard. It was also in those years that I realized the only other people who seemed to age as I, were my fellow executioners.
After my wife passed, I cared little for the tribulations of the king. I did his bidding, and I lived well. And lived long. He died while away at war. His son was murdered by *his* son. I served many kings. After a century of service, I saw the empire fall, and I departed for Babylon to serve under Nebuchadnezzar. I fell in love. I lived on. I aged, I youthed. Never were my wives with child - perhaps the price for my immortality.
Immortal, yes, but not invincible. After all, my fellow executioners expired - at my hand. I did not share their loyalty to the empire, and I did not need tales spreading of the ageless executioner.
I learned to speak and write many languages. I traveled to Greece, and Rome centuries after that, when I saw the winds of history changing. My fair skin, a gift of my Lebanese heritage, hid me. When stories came of a man who'd been executed in Jerusalem only to return from the dead, I immediately returned to investigate, but I found nothing. I found his followers, but no trace of the man who defied death.
*****
I am not the man I once was.
I once was a simple man. Now, I have seen civilization across the horizon of time. I speak every major language througout history. I have loved many times, and lost just as many. I age, and I quietly let my love slip away as I somehow get younger. There were some that asked me to put an end to their suffering, but I always refuse - I dare not use their deaths to my benefit.
Maybe the cycle will break. When hanging waned as the preferred method of execution, I could tell my profession was dying out - a fitting choice of words. Now, with lethal injection finally disappearing as well, maybe I could stop killing. I had no idea how long I could survive on the lives I'd taken, but I was willing to find out. | I looked at my severance package. €10,000 per annum, not inflationary adjusted. I had executed men since before the Hanging Gardens of Babylon had even been planted, I had been a trophy for the European Empire for over *500* years, and my redundancy payout was €10,000. Those fuckers.
It was an oddity, that after thousands of years of executing people that my career and particular skill set could be eliminated within a few years of "democracy". Characters of fictional stories always had to overcome great and sudden change. But they were always teenagers discovering great abilities. I was a several thousand year old man who knew how to decapitate people.
The European Empire had demanded me as reparations from the war-torn realm of America, their own executioner had demanded retirement and they needed someone who didn't mind providing it. I had refused initially, I had wanted to avoid being a pawn in international disputes. But, when I learned the reason for the request I had to accept; if an executioner requested death, it was dishonourable to deny it. I was not just a treasure for my skill with a sword, but for my reputation as an executioner who did not grow tired of his station.
Once, people jumped at the chance to be executioners, soldiers, judges, assassins. The appeal of an extra hundred years was a tempting one. But, the human brain couldn't tolerate so many memories, and so people realised that life had less joy once your wife had died, your fertility had gone and your fond memories of both (that were clung to so dearly) were lost to the shadows. A suffering beyond all others, that no man deserved.
In the end, executioners became the soldiers, the judges and those who would enact the decisions that no man except one so detached from his own upbringing could make. People grew tired of all this power held by so few. Engineers invented machines that could kill, hoping it would break the curse - they called it the first "Google War". It's effects were mixed. The programmers still rule the many Duchies of the "Silicon Valley" to this day.
Until the governments of the world decided that war was over, that executioners were unnecessary, that society could thrive without them. Apparently those with lives too long lost perspective. They said it with naïvety, as though we didn't know what we'd done, that we didn't realise we'd overstayed our welcome, that we didn't know we deserved the suffering we had to face.
I was sure they'd call us back, insist that we work again when a war started, but war never came. The world was peaceful. United. Well, united in their disdain for the immortal beings their wars had created.
I did the only thing someone who deserved to die could do. I applied to be a Doctor. The executioner cliche. Make up for the years of pain by helping people. But being a Doctor didn't reduce my debt. My ledger told a story of my years still piling up. The hours when you turn off life support, the days you take away when you refuse to continue a prescription, the weeks when you misdiagnose, the years when a patient doesn't have insurance.
I tried to justify it to myself, that I was making up for my work. For the years of pain and suffering that I had caused. For the times I was traded between countries, and unreluctantly killed on their behalf, even when the executions had no just cause. In the end, though, I had to return to what I knew, executions.
The woman behind the desk glanced up at me. "Parlez-vous encore français?"
I nodded curtly.
"Most of our patients will be scared, they don't have long left, or they have a little to long left. You will be adding even longer to your life. You do understand this, don't you?"
I nodded again.
"Welcome to Dignitas. May I just say that I've been a big fan of your work."
I tilted my head a little and narrowed my eyes. A distant memory lit in the back of my mind.
"Back in the fourteen hundreds, well, the *last* fourteen hundreds." She smiled at me. "We're in your debt."
I stood from my seat. "It is you! You do know they stopped teaching that at schools after I went to the South African republic?"
She frowned. "We've never met."
"Au contraire," I reached into my left pocket and pulled out a revolver and placed it on the table. "I met you at the massacre of Hessen." I pulled a few bullets from my other pocket with a cloth. "You were the first woman I met that could do that." I started polishing a bullet.
Her smile faltered. "I'm afraid you really must have me confused with someone -"
"You'd remember that one." I placed a single bullet in the gun. "How many children was it?"
"I've been a doctor for a very long time, you -"
"No." I interrupted. I span the cylinder of the gun. Then popped it into place. "I lost count after a hundred - children, that is." I placed the gun on the table. "It's the only debt not in my ledger."
"You can't seriously want to take my debt."
"It's been a long time since I met someone who deserved to die even half as much as me." I smiled. "How much did you get for your pension in the end?"
"The Columbians didn't pay well. It was a few million euros a year." She snorted. "Non-inflationary of course. Do they even print coins that small any more?"
"I considered publishing my memoirs." I said, leaning back into my chair. "I do miss those days."
"You remember that German?" She asked. "She worked here for a while. She only remembered who I was after rereading her life summary."
"Weren't you married?"
She looked puzzled for a moment. "Maybe? Was that her?" She strummed her hand against the desk. "I think you're thinking of the Russian."
I raised an eyebrow. " *Russians?* It really was a long time ago."
She reached into her desk and pulled out a tattered leather-bound book. "My life summary. 400 pages, regulation size. Some fun stuff in here. I was rereading my childhood the other day. I grew up *before* guns."
I reached for my bag. "I removed the paragraph about teenage experimentation last month. Apparently my mother caught me and the neighbour."
"All of the horrors of humanity and you put that in your summary?"
"Damn right." I smirked. "If you're not gonna' remember your first time, what do you put in there?"
There was a long silence. The gun lay on the table. Staring at both of them.
"How many years?" She asked.
"Too many. You?"
"You don't want to know."
"I deserve it." I picked up the gun. "And so do you. Would you like to go first?"
--- FIN ---
I must confess this sort of came out a bit like word vomit. I think there's potential to rewrite this. My idea was old friends who both felt the great desire to die, but were unable to bring themselves to give up their debt to just anybody. Sort of like a reverse highlander. |
Just seemed like an interesting concept. | [WP] In a world where killing someone means you gain the victim's lifespan, you are an executioner who has served great leaders for thousands of years. | "Frank J. Smith, serial killer, convicted for killing 3 families including 5 children under the age of 5," the judge read from his papers in his most official and matter-of-fact tone. I was excited. Serial killers were rare, but meant I didn't have to worry about anything for a long time. 5 kids under the age of 5 was 5 almost entire life spans. I would be able to add at least a millennium to my life span after today's execution. Or, at least that's what I wanted everyone to think.
"I'm innocent!" cried Frank. The judge didn't even look at him.
"You're just scared."
For a brief second, I got eye contact with Frank as I filled his veins with poison. A rare phenomenon. One that would haunt me for days. Because I knew he was innocent.
In fact, there hadn't been a serial killer on the loose in several centuries. Not as far as I was concerned, anyway. Except, of course, for me. But the thousands of years of in-field experience had taught me how to get away with it, how to frame someone while leaving no evidence behind. And the thousands of years of loyal service to high ranking people had gotten me a lot of trust - I practically led most of the investigations.
Jack, my newest accomplice, sat across from me at the dinner table in his house. Together, we had accumulated approximately 10,000 years by murdering innocent people and then having me execute other innocent people that we had framed. I had met him in a bar and gotten him drunk. I spotted him from all the way outside. I had done this a thousand times. He was the perfect accomplice. Middle class, enjoying life, greedy, willing to do anything for a few more years. We drank together, I told him about my job. We gained each other's trust, and then I told him I couldn't do it alone. Which was completely true. You can't commit the perfect crime alone.
Today, he was sitting across from me at the dinner table, and he was eating. His wife and kids knew they couldn't be in the room when we were discussing business, so he had told them to eat when we were done and gone. I told him I wasn't hungry, and he just accepted. He trusted me, and I trusted him even more. I waited until he was done eating, and then he asked me, like I knew he would: "So, what do you have for us today?"
"Family father," I told him. "In a bout of depression-fueled rage, murders his wife and three kids, then commits suicide. The case will be open and shut. No investigation, no trial, no execution. I need you to produce a suicide note quickly, just scribble it down like you're in a hurry." I handed him pen and paper and watched him go to work.
As he finished, he said: "Wife and three kids, eh? I almost feel bad about this one. It could be... Me." I watched his face as the worrying realization ran across. He looked up at me. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..."
As his mouth rounded, pronouncing "to", I drew my gun before he could react, propped the barrel in his mouth and shot him. Then I closed his fingers around the weapon and let him drop down into his chair as naturally as possible. And then I had 5000 years more to live, all in a matter of seconds. His wife and kids came running as soon as they heard the gun shot. It was almost too easy. 4 head shots, point blank.
"He must've called them in to the kitchen for dinner," I told the investigators. "Then shot them, quickly and efficiently. He prepared enough food for the entire family, but only got to eat himself... A last supper of sorts, I suppose." The investigators all nodded and scribbled down my deductions on their little pads. "And then there's the suicide note... This case is almost too easy. Too many of these and our jobs are going to become very boring." The investigators chuckled grimly. I watched them smile. Without me, they wouldn't have a job.
The investigation lasted 10 minutes, then the process of cleaning up the scene started. That was all I needed to see. I had gotten away with it. Clean. Again. Beloved by the community.
I drove downtown, parked in a parking lot right outside of my favorite bar. Through the window, I saw a middle aged man. A family father, I guessed. He was overweight, and had more empty beers in front of him than anyone else. He was greedy, unhealthy, and most definitely in need of a few more years to live. I left the car, went inside, and asked him if I could sit next to him. He smiled brightly and bought me a beer. A happy drunk. A greedy man. Willing to do anything to indulge in this lifestyle without worrying about health complications.
"My name is Joseph," he said, and I took his stretched out hand. Joseph was going to be my newest accomplice. For the next 10,000 of so years worth of homicide. | I looked at my severance package. €10,000 per annum, not inflationary adjusted. I had executed men since before the Hanging Gardens of Babylon had even been planted, I had been a trophy for the European Empire for over *500* years, and my redundancy payout was €10,000. Those fuckers.
It was an oddity, that after thousands of years of executing people that my career and particular skill set could be eliminated within a few years of "democracy". Characters of fictional stories always had to overcome great and sudden change. But they were always teenagers discovering great abilities. I was a several thousand year old man who knew how to decapitate people.
The European Empire had demanded me as reparations from the war-torn realm of America, their own executioner had demanded retirement and they needed someone who didn't mind providing it. I had refused initially, I had wanted to avoid being a pawn in international disputes. But, when I learned the reason for the request I had to accept; if an executioner requested death, it was dishonourable to deny it. I was not just a treasure for my skill with a sword, but for my reputation as an executioner who did not grow tired of his station.
Once, people jumped at the chance to be executioners, soldiers, judges, assassins. The appeal of an extra hundred years was a tempting one. But, the human brain couldn't tolerate so many memories, and so people realised that life had less joy once your wife had died, your fertility had gone and your fond memories of both (that were clung to so dearly) were lost to the shadows. A suffering beyond all others, that no man deserved.
In the end, executioners became the soldiers, the judges and those who would enact the decisions that no man except one so detached from his own upbringing could make. People grew tired of all this power held by so few. Engineers invented machines that could kill, hoping it would break the curse - they called it the first "Google War". It's effects were mixed. The programmers still rule the many Duchies of the "Silicon Valley" to this day.
Until the governments of the world decided that war was over, that executioners were unnecessary, that society could thrive without them. Apparently those with lives too long lost perspective. They said it with naïvety, as though we didn't know what we'd done, that we didn't realise we'd overstayed our welcome, that we didn't know we deserved the suffering we had to face.
I was sure they'd call us back, insist that we work again when a war started, but war never came. The world was peaceful. United. Well, united in their disdain for the immortal beings their wars had created.
I did the only thing someone who deserved to die could do. I applied to be a Doctor. The executioner cliche. Make up for the years of pain by helping people. But being a Doctor didn't reduce my debt. My ledger told a story of my years still piling up. The hours when you turn off life support, the days you take away when you refuse to continue a prescription, the weeks when you misdiagnose, the years when a patient doesn't have insurance.
I tried to justify it to myself, that I was making up for my work. For the years of pain and suffering that I had caused. For the times I was traded between countries, and unreluctantly killed on their behalf, even when the executions had no just cause. In the end, though, I had to return to what I knew, executions.
The woman behind the desk glanced up at me. "Parlez-vous encore français?"
I nodded curtly.
"Most of our patients will be scared, they don't have long left, or they have a little to long left. You will be adding even longer to your life. You do understand this, don't you?"
I nodded again.
"Welcome to Dignitas. May I just say that I've been a big fan of your work."
I tilted my head a little and narrowed my eyes. A distant memory lit in the back of my mind.
"Back in the fourteen hundreds, well, the *last* fourteen hundreds." She smiled at me. "We're in your debt."
I stood from my seat. "It is you! You do know they stopped teaching that at schools after I went to the South African republic?"
She frowned. "We've never met."
"Au contraire," I reached into my left pocket and pulled out a revolver and placed it on the table. "I met you at the massacre of Hessen." I pulled a few bullets from my other pocket with a cloth. "You were the first woman I met that could do that." I started polishing a bullet.
Her smile faltered. "I'm afraid you really must have me confused with someone -"
"You'd remember that one." I placed a single bullet in the gun. "How many children was it?"
"I've been a doctor for a very long time, you -"
"No." I interrupted. I span the cylinder of the gun. Then popped it into place. "I lost count after a hundred - children, that is." I placed the gun on the table. "It's the only debt not in my ledger."
"You can't seriously want to take my debt."
"It's been a long time since I met someone who deserved to die even half as much as me." I smiled. "How much did you get for your pension in the end?"
"The Columbians didn't pay well. It was a few million euros a year." She snorted. "Non-inflationary of course. Do they even print coins that small any more?"
"I considered publishing my memoirs." I said, leaning back into my chair. "I do miss those days."
"You remember that German?" She asked. "She worked here for a while. She only remembered who I was after rereading her life summary."
"Weren't you married?"
She looked puzzled for a moment. "Maybe? Was that her?" She strummed her hand against the desk. "I think you're thinking of the Russian."
I raised an eyebrow. " *Russians?* It really was a long time ago."
She reached into her desk and pulled out a tattered leather-bound book. "My life summary. 400 pages, regulation size. Some fun stuff in here. I was rereading my childhood the other day. I grew up *before* guns."
I reached for my bag. "I removed the paragraph about teenage experimentation last month. Apparently my mother caught me and the neighbour."
"All of the horrors of humanity and you put that in your summary?"
"Damn right." I smirked. "If you're not gonna' remember your first time, what do you put in there?"
There was a long silence. The gun lay on the table. Staring at both of them.
"How many years?" She asked.
"Too many. You?"
"You don't want to know."
"I deserve it." I picked up the gun. "And so do you. Would you like to go first?"
--- FIN ---
I must confess this sort of came out a bit like word vomit. I think there's potential to rewrite this. My idea was old friends who both felt the great desire to die, but were unable to bring themselves to give up their debt to just anybody. Sort of like a reverse highlander. |
Just seemed like an interesting concept. | [WP] In a world where killing someone means you gain the victim's lifespan, you are an executioner who has served great leaders for thousands of years. | I am a scholar.
I have spent many years at my studies. I am rightly regarded as the finest mind in my field. I have the rare privilege of effectively eternal life.
I am an executioner. I am the last—the rest have retired or been abolished long ago. Some are still living out their long lives, counting the days or trying to make something of their greatly extended lives.
At one time we were common. Some of us became kings ourselves. It was expected that an executioner, who must commit the sin of taking life, would use the rest of his time repenting by using his unusually lengthy lifespan to do good. Past executioners have been inventors, explorers, and thinkers. I think at this point our society would be many millennia behind where we are now without the executioners.
But I am the last. Even as society continues to kill, society began to reject our work. Even as they depend on our inventions and our ideas, they turn away from the creators.
For a time, we competed. The last regimes to hold on to the old ways had their pick of executioners, some of whom were not ready to relinquish their immortality and fought viciously for their work. Which is or is not ironic, depending on why you think we do what we do.
Now, I am the last. I am a wanted man, hidden away in this jungle. I am often sickly, often feverish, but I do not die. And every so often, I am rousted from my studies to take a life.
My studies are in crime and poverty and war. In ten times ten generations I haven't come up with my answer. I have seen empires rise and fall, and technologies change, but still have smelt the same blood for thousands of years. But even as I myself grow weary and disgusted of the executions, I continue my work so that I can have more years to find my answer. I will not stop until I have it.
I will find out why people kill and are killed, and my answer will be how to stop them.
In every language—some of them languages only I still remember—people have joked to me that I will never be out of a job. It's a double meaning, of course. They still tell that joke.
But to every person I kill, I make a promise: One day, I too will die. | I looked at my severance package. €10,000 per annum, not inflationary adjusted. I had executed men since before the Hanging Gardens of Babylon had even been planted, I had been a trophy for the European Empire for over *500* years, and my redundancy payout was €10,000. Those fuckers.
It was an oddity, that after thousands of years of executing people that my career and particular skill set could be eliminated within a few years of "democracy". Characters of fictional stories always had to overcome great and sudden change. But they were always teenagers discovering great abilities. I was a several thousand year old man who knew how to decapitate people.
The European Empire had demanded me as reparations from the war-torn realm of America, their own executioner had demanded retirement and they needed someone who didn't mind providing it. I had refused initially, I had wanted to avoid being a pawn in international disputes. But, when I learned the reason for the request I had to accept; if an executioner requested death, it was dishonourable to deny it. I was not just a treasure for my skill with a sword, but for my reputation as an executioner who did not grow tired of his station.
Once, people jumped at the chance to be executioners, soldiers, judges, assassins. The appeal of an extra hundred years was a tempting one. But, the human brain couldn't tolerate so many memories, and so people realised that life had less joy once your wife had died, your fertility had gone and your fond memories of both (that were clung to so dearly) were lost to the shadows. A suffering beyond all others, that no man deserved.
In the end, executioners became the soldiers, the judges and those who would enact the decisions that no man except one so detached from his own upbringing could make. People grew tired of all this power held by so few. Engineers invented machines that could kill, hoping it would break the curse - they called it the first "Google War". It's effects were mixed. The programmers still rule the many Duchies of the "Silicon Valley" to this day.
Until the governments of the world decided that war was over, that executioners were unnecessary, that society could thrive without them. Apparently those with lives too long lost perspective. They said it with naïvety, as though we didn't know what we'd done, that we didn't realise we'd overstayed our welcome, that we didn't know we deserved the suffering we had to face.
I was sure they'd call us back, insist that we work again when a war started, but war never came. The world was peaceful. United. Well, united in their disdain for the immortal beings their wars had created.
I did the only thing someone who deserved to die could do. I applied to be a Doctor. The executioner cliche. Make up for the years of pain by helping people. But being a Doctor didn't reduce my debt. My ledger told a story of my years still piling up. The hours when you turn off life support, the days you take away when you refuse to continue a prescription, the weeks when you misdiagnose, the years when a patient doesn't have insurance.
I tried to justify it to myself, that I was making up for my work. For the years of pain and suffering that I had caused. For the times I was traded between countries, and unreluctantly killed on their behalf, even when the executions had no just cause. In the end, though, I had to return to what I knew, executions.
The woman behind the desk glanced up at me. "Parlez-vous encore français?"
I nodded curtly.
"Most of our patients will be scared, they don't have long left, or they have a little to long left. You will be adding even longer to your life. You do understand this, don't you?"
I nodded again.
"Welcome to Dignitas. May I just say that I've been a big fan of your work."
I tilted my head a little and narrowed my eyes. A distant memory lit in the back of my mind.
"Back in the fourteen hundreds, well, the *last* fourteen hundreds." She smiled at me. "We're in your debt."
I stood from my seat. "It is you! You do know they stopped teaching that at schools after I went to the South African republic?"
She frowned. "We've never met."
"Au contraire," I reached into my left pocket and pulled out a revolver and placed it on the table. "I met you at the massacre of Hessen." I pulled a few bullets from my other pocket with a cloth. "You were the first woman I met that could do that." I started polishing a bullet.
Her smile faltered. "I'm afraid you really must have me confused with someone -"
"You'd remember that one." I placed a single bullet in the gun. "How many children was it?"
"I've been a doctor for a very long time, you -"
"No." I interrupted. I span the cylinder of the gun. Then popped it into place. "I lost count after a hundred - children, that is." I placed the gun on the table. "It's the only debt not in my ledger."
"You can't seriously want to take my debt."
"It's been a long time since I met someone who deserved to die even half as much as me." I smiled. "How much did you get for your pension in the end?"
"The Columbians didn't pay well. It was a few million euros a year." She snorted. "Non-inflationary of course. Do they even print coins that small any more?"
"I considered publishing my memoirs." I said, leaning back into my chair. "I do miss those days."
"You remember that German?" She asked. "She worked here for a while. She only remembered who I was after rereading her life summary."
"Weren't you married?"
She looked puzzled for a moment. "Maybe? Was that her?" She strummed her hand against the desk. "I think you're thinking of the Russian."
I raised an eyebrow. " *Russians?* It really was a long time ago."
She reached into her desk and pulled out a tattered leather-bound book. "My life summary. 400 pages, regulation size. Some fun stuff in here. I was rereading my childhood the other day. I grew up *before* guns."
I reached for my bag. "I removed the paragraph about teenage experimentation last month. Apparently my mother caught me and the neighbour."
"All of the horrors of humanity and you put that in your summary?"
"Damn right." I smirked. "If you're not gonna' remember your first time, what do you put in there?"
There was a long silence. The gun lay on the table. Staring at both of them.
"How many years?" She asked.
"Too many. You?"
"You don't want to know."
"I deserve it." I picked up the gun. "And so do you. Would you like to go first?"
--- FIN ---
I must confess this sort of came out a bit like word vomit. I think there's potential to rewrite this. My idea was old friends who both felt the great desire to die, but were unable to bring themselves to give up their debt to just anybody. Sort of like a reverse highlander. |
Just seemed like an interesting concept. | [WP] In a world where killing someone means you gain the victim's lifespan, you are an executioner who has served great leaders for thousands of years. | It's never occurred to me to write any fiction. Or anything creatively at all. I've followed this sub and think I'll start posting my stupid attempts... maybe they will improve :) anyways, here's mine:
"I find you guilty."
A moment of silence passes through the courtroom. All eyes, including the magistrates', are fixed upon you. Some of these eyes hold hateful stares. Others looked shocked. Some, too young to understand what is happening, simply look curious. Maybe even amused.
"Though it pains me to hand down such a sentence to one who has had such a lengthy and esteemed career, especially one so close to the court, our laws are absolute. This court finds you guilty of murder. As such, you will receive the only punishment that we have for such an unspeakable crime. Death."
More silence. More eyes.
Long ago, maybe even just decades ago, you might have exploded into an indignant rant. You might have tried to explain yourself. Perhaps you could have made one last desperate plea to the courtroom to explain your case. To save yourself.
Not now.
Now you understood that somethings are long-lasting, while others are eternal. A life, if one is lucky, can be the former. Deceit, politics, envy... These are the latter.
"Because of your position relating to the court and the seriousness of the charges, the king himself has insisted upon carrying out your execution. May you accept your fate and come to peace with death."
Days later, your head finally rests upon the familiar stump where executions are carried out. As the hood is removed, the sun blinds your eyes momentarily. When your eyes adjust and are able to focus upon the king standing over you, your eyes aren't drawn to the mighty axe slung over his shoulder. The axe you've spent lifetimes caring for and maintaining. Instead your eyes are drawn to his smile. You smile yourself, just before the axe comes down. For you recognize this smile as the the same expectant smile that crossed your face every time you raised that axe yourself.
| I looked at my severance package. €10,000 per annum, not inflationary adjusted. I had executed men since before the Hanging Gardens of Babylon had even been planted, I had been a trophy for the European Empire for over *500* years, and my redundancy payout was €10,000. Those fuckers.
It was an oddity, that after thousands of years of executing people that my career and particular skill set could be eliminated within a few years of "democracy". Characters of fictional stories always had to overcome great and sudden change. But they were always teenagers discovering great abilities. I was a several thousand year old man who knew how to decapitate people.
The European Empire had demanded me as reparations from the war-torn realm of America, their own executioner had demanded retirement and they needed someone who didn't mind providing it. I had refused initially, I had wanted to avoid being a pawn in international disputes. But, when I learned the reason for the request I had to accept; if an executioner requested death, it was dishonourable to deny it. I was not just a treasure for my skill with a sword, but for my reputation as an executioner who did not grow tired of his station.
Once, people jumped at the chance to be executioners, soldiers, judges, assassins. The appeal of an extra hundred years was a tempting one. But, the human brain couldn't tolerate so many memories, and so people realised that life had less joy once your wife had died, your fertility had gone and your fond memories of both (that were clung to so dearly) were lost to the shadows. A suffering beyond all others, that no man deserved.
In the end, executioners became the soldiers, the judges and those who would enact the decisions that no man except one so detached from his own upbringing could make. People grew tired of all this power held by so few. Engineers invented machines that could kill, hoping it would break the curse - they called it the first "Google War". It's effects were mixed. The programmers still rule the many Duchies of the "Silicon Valley" to this day.
Until the governments of the world decided that war was over, that executioners were unnecessary, that society could thrive without them. Apparently those with lives too long lost perspective. They said it with naïvety, as though we didn't know what we'd done, that we didn't realise we'd overstayed our welcome, that we didn't know we deserved the suffering we had to face.
I was sure they'd call us back, insist that we work again when a war started, but war never came. The world was peaceful. United. Well, united in their disdain for the immortal beings their wars had created.
I did the only thing someone who deserved to die could do. I applied to be a Doctor. The executioner cliche. Make up for the years of pain by helping people. But being a Doctor didn't reduce my debt. My ledger told a story of my years still piling up. The hours when you turn off life support, the days you take away when you refuse to continue a prescription, the weeks when you misdiagnose, the years when a patient doesn't have insurance.
I tried to justify it to myself, that I was making up for my work. For the years of pain and suffering that I had caused. For the times I was traded between countries, and unreluctantly killed on their behalf, even when the executions had no just cause. In the end, though, I had to return to what I knew, executions.
The woman behind the desk glanced up at me. "Parlez-vous encore français?"
I nodded curtly.
"Most of our patients will be scared, they don't have long left, or they have a little to long left. You will be adding even longer to your life. You do understand this, don't you?"
I nodded again.
"Welcome to Dignitas. May I just say that I've been a big fan of your work."
I tilted my head a little and narrowed my eyes. A distant memory lit in the back of my mind.
"Back in the fourteen hundreds, well, the *last* fourteen hundreds." She smiled at me. "We're in your debt."
I stood from my seat. "It is you! You do know they stopped teaching that at schools after I went to the South African republic?"
She frowned. "We've never met."
"Au contraire," I reached into my left pocket and pulled out a revolver and placed it on the table. "I met you at the massacre of Hessen." I pulled a few bullets from my other pocket with a cloth. "You were the first woman I met that could do that." I started polishing a bullet.
Her smile faltered. "I'm afraid you really must have me confused with someone -"
"You'd remember that one." I placed a single bullet in the gun. "How many children was it?"
"I've been a doctor for a very long time, you -"
"No." I interrupted. I span the cylinder of the gun. Then popped it into place. "I lost count after a hundred - children, that is." I placed the gun on the table. "It's the only debt not in my ledger."
"You can't seriously want to take my debt."
"It's been a long time since I met someone who deserved to die even half as much as me." I smiled. "How much did you get for your pension in the end?"
"The Columbians didn't pay well. It was a few million euros a year." She snorted. "Non-inflationary of course. Do they even print coins that small any more?"
"I considered publishing my memoirs." I said, leaning back into my chair. "I do miss those days."
"You remember that German?" She asked. "She worked here for a while. She only remembered who I was after rereading her life summary."
"Weren't you married?"
She looked puzzled for a moment. "Maybe? Was that her?" She strummed her hand against the desk. "I think you're thinking of the Russian."
I raised an eyebrow. " *Russians?* It really was a long time ago."
She reached into her desk and pulled out a tattered leather-bound book. "My life summary. 400 pages, regulation size. Some fun stuff in here. I was rereading my childhood the other day. I grew up *before* guns."
I reached for my bag. "I removed the paragraph about teenage experimentation last month. Apparently my mother caught me and the neighbour."
"All of the horrors of humanity and you put that in your summary?"
"Damn right." I smirked. "If you're not gonna' remember your first time, what do you put in there?"
There was a long silence. The gun lay on the table. Staring at both of them.
"How many years?" She asked.
"Too many. You?"
"You don't want to know."
"I deserve it." I picked up the gun. "And so do you. Would you like to go first?"
--- FIN ---
I must confess this sort of came out a bit like word vomit. I think there's potential to rewrite this. My idea was old friends who both felt the great desire to die, but were unable to bring themselves to give up their debt to just anybody. Sort of like a reverse highlander. |
Just seemed like an interesting concept. | [WP] In a world where killing someone means you gain the victim's lifespan, you are an executioner who has served great leaders for thousands of years. | I've always hated hospitals. The smell... I've smelt worse, but it felt caustic, washing through my nose and lungs. I hadn't needed to be in one for over 3,000 years, but this one smells the same as the last time.
Since taking a wife offered to me by President... Whatsisname. How jaded am I? Anyway, I took a wife, her name is Christine. Christine had been a favoured aide before a scandal had ousted glorious Whatsisname and been replaced by my current employer, his majesty the High King Jim. He didn't turn the empire into a monarchy, it's still (allegedly) democratic. He just liked the name.
This empire is weird.
During the revolution where Whatsisname was deposed and glorious everlasting Jim came in, Christine and I hid. Not very well mind, which is why I'm employed again, but for a while I was free.
We lived simply in a little town, one of the last. Everyone lived in the megatropolises nowadays. If I close my eyes, from the birth of the empire to now, I can almost watch them being built as though by autistic ants, in drips and drabs. They're not very inviting, I think. The people feel... Hungry. Desperate.
Aged.
We liked our little town. The little town liked us. We baked bread, and built fences, fished and rode quadcopters without helmets. We made friends with a Silent Sister who worked in the orphanage. We'd go on weekends to read to the children, and I would cook and tell stories.
The children often asked my age.
I never answered.
One child was more curious than the others. Curious or more persistent? Same bag really. She was Lisa, and would not be distracted from my age. She'd follow us home, calling out, begging to stay with us before Sister... Dammit what was her name?
Months passed before the revolution caught up.
I thought they would be coming to seek vengeance for the hundreds of their comrades I'd put to death.
They did, in a way. They wanted me to be their instrument now.
I refused.
They burnt my town to the ground, and killed everyone in it, including the children at the orphanage and Sister...
Lisa was with Christine and I when it happened. The comrades that I had refused earlier simply said they'd do that to every square inch in the empire I'd ever thought about, let alone visit, if I did not go with them. I acquiesced, after guaranteed Christine and Lisa's safety. We flew in their hoverbird back to the capital that evening.
Feels like a blur.
I resumed my life expanding, but soul destroying work.
I was going to live for another 10,000 years before, now I will live for 13,000.
I'm so tired.
Christine tells me that Lisa is ill,and we should have to take her to the hospital, I agree to meet them there.
I'll never like this smell.
I am sitting in front of a doctor, holding Lisa's hand. She looks frightened, but smiling through it. Christine is holding her other hand and speaking to the doctor. It seems like I'm hearing them from behind a brick wall.
Lisa has months to live.
How can we have intercranial WiFi and no cure for whatever she's got?
We leave the hospital. The girls are in a bad mood. I feel numb, as per usual really. We arrive at the trifloat I have been given by my majestic lord Jim and I am struck with an idea.
I give Lisa the keys and tell her to kill me. She refuses and Christine is crying but I don't care.
I am so tired.
| I looked at my severance package. €10,000 per annum, not inflationary adjusted. I had executed men since before the Hanging Gardens of Babylon had even been planted, I had been a trophy for the European Empire for over *500* years, and my redundancy payout was €10,000. Those fuckers.
It was an oddity, that after thousands of years of executing people that my career and particular skill set could be eliminated within a few years of "democracy". Characters of fictional stories always had to overcome great and sudden change. But they were always teenagers discovering great abilities. I was a several thousand year old man who knew how to decapitate people.
The European Empire had demanded me as reparations from the war-torn realm of America, their own executioner had demanded retirement and they needed someone who didn't mind providing it. I had refused initially, I had wanted to avoid being a pawn in international disputes. But, when I learned the reason for the request I had to accept; if an executioner requested death, it was dishonourable to deny it. I was not just a treasure for my skill with a sword, but for my reputation as an executioner who did not grow tired of his station.
Once, people jumped at the chance to be executioners, soldiers, judges, assassins. The appeal of an extra hundred years was a tempting one. But, the human brain couldn't tolerate so many memories, and so people realised that life had less joy once your wife had died, your fertility had gone and your fond memories of both (that were clung to so dearly) were lost to the shadows. A suffering beyond all others, that no man deserved.
In the end, executioners became the soldiers, the judges and those who would enact the decisions that no man except one so detached from his own upbringing could make. People grew tired of all this power held by so few. Engineers invented machines that could kill, hoping it would break the curse - they called it the first "Google War". It's effects were mixed. The programmers still rule the many Duchies of the "Silicon Valley" to this day.
Until the governments of the world decided that war was over, that executioners were unnecessary, that society could thrive without them. Apparently those with lives too long lost perspective. They said it with naïvety, as though we didn't know what we'd done, that we didn't realise we'd overstayed our welcome, that we didn't know we deserved the suffering we had to face.
I was sure they'd call us back, insist that we work again when a war started, but war never came. The world was peaceful. United. Well, united in their disdain for the immortal beings their wars had created.
I did the only thing someone who deserved to die could do. I applied to be a Doctor. The executioner cliche. Make up for the years of pain by helping people. But being a Doctor didn't reduce my debt. My ledger told a story of my years still piling up. The hours when you turn off life support, the days you take away when you refuse to continue a prescription, the weeks when you misdiagnose, the years when a patient doesn't have insurance.
I tried to justify it to myself, that I was making up for my work. For the years of pain and suffering that I had caused. For the times I was traded between countries, and unreluctantly killed on their behalf, even when the executions had no just cause. In the end, though, I had to return to what I knew, executions.
The woman behind the desk glanced up at me. "Parlez-vous encore français?"
I nodded curtly.
"Most of our patients will be scared, they don't have long left, or they have a little to long left. You will be adding even longer to your life. You do understand this, don't you?"
I nodded again.
"Welcome to Dignitas. May I just say that I've been a big fan of your work."
I tilted my head a little and narrowed my eyes. A distant memory lit in the back of my mind.
"Back in the fourteen hundreds, well, the *last* fourteen hundreds." She smiled at me. "We're in your debt."
I stood from my seat. "It is you! You do know they stopped teaching that at schools after I went to the South African republic?"
She frowned. "We've never met."
"Au contraire," I reached into my left pocket and pulled out a revolver and placed it on the table. "I met you at the massacre of Hessen." I pulled a few bullets from my other pocket with a cloth. "You were the first woman I met that could do that." I started polishing a bullet.
Her smile faltered. "I'm afraid you really must have me confused with someone -"
"You'd remember that one." I placed a single bullet in the gun. "How many children was it?"
"I've been a doctor for a very long time, you -"
"No." I interrupted. I span the cylinder of the gun. Then popped it into place. "I lost count after a hundred - children, that is." I placed the gun on the table. "It's the only debt not in my ledger."
"You can't seriously want to take my debt."
"It's been a long time since I met someone who deserved to die even half as much as me." I smiled. "How much did you get for your pension in the end?"
"The Columbians didn't pay well. It was a few million euros a year." She snorted. "Non-inflationary of course. Do they even print coins that small any more?"
"I considered publishing my memoirs." I said, leaning back into my chair. "I do miss those days."
"You remember that German?" She asked. "She worked here for a while. She only remembered who I was after rereading her life summary."
"Weren't you married?"
She looked puzzled for a moment. "Maybe? Was that her?" She strummed her hand against the desk. "I think you're thinking of the Russian."
I raised an eyebrow. " *Russians?* It really was a long time ago."
She reached into her desk and pulled out a tattered leather-bound book. "My life summary. 400 pages, regulation size. Some fun stuff in here. I was rereading my childhood the other day. I grew up *before* guns."
I reached for my bag. "I removed the paragraph about teenage experimentation last month. Apparently my mother caught me and the neighbour."
"All of the horrors of humanity and you put that in your summary?"
"Damn right." I smirked. "If you're not gonna' remember your first time, what do you put in there?"
There was a long silence. The gun lay on the table. Staring at both of them.
"How many years?" She asked.
"Too many. You?"
"You don't want to know."
"I deserve it." I picked up the gun. "And so do you. Would you like to go first?"
--- FIN ---
I must confess this sort of came out a bit like word vomit. I think there's potential to rewrite this. My idea was old friends who both felt the great desire to die, but were unable to bring themselves to give up their debt to just anybody. Sort of like a reverse highlander. |
Just seemed like an interesting concept. | [WP] In a world where killing someone means you gain the victim's lifespan, you are an executioner who has served great leaders for thousands of years. | "At least $16,000." The old man said.
"No, I won't go higher than $10,000." Richard Brooks said, his tone was intimidating.
Mr. Carter looked at me, his old, tired eyes were pleading.
"Mr. Brooks," I said to the businessman, "my client was diagnosed at only Stage 2. He will reasonably have anywhere between six to twelve months. It is a fair rate at $16,000. Would you consider meeting at $15,000?" I had previously discussed with Mr. Carter that he was willing to go as low as $12,000. Though it was always wise to start higher.
Richard mused, then asked for the paperwork. I handed him the paper, detailing the diagnosis of Mr. Carter. It was common in today's civilized age for someone with a terminal illness to sell their remaining time, or give it away. I had witnessed and been the hand of many executions. I lived in the dark times, when people died in the middle of their lives. Nowadays, every moment I am dearly grateful for how humane my job has become.
"I'll settle at $14,000. That's just over a month of pay for me, so I can handle the risk." Richard said, interrupting my thoughts.
I glanced at Mr. Carter for his approval, and with it I state "Deal." As Richard is signing the papers, I think of how a man such as himself would set aside several months salary each year to buy about the same amount of time back. In essence, he would be able to live forever, buying the time as needed. It was always a risk though, you never quite knew how much time a person who was ill had left, but it was typically worth the risk. The money would go to Mr. Carter's descendants and Mr. Brooks could continue his endless chase for eternity. However, I couldn't blame him. I was doing the same thing; a portion of my clients dealt directly with me. I would pay them with the money from my other clients. After living so long, I still wasn't ready to go. I looked at Richard who had just finished signing the papers, thinking to myself, even though he was likely hundreds of years old, he was only a percentage of my age. To me, he was a child.
Smiling, Richard handed me the papers.
"Be here tomorrow at 8 pm sharp." I said grimly, "You'll need to be the one to start the injection."
"It was a pleasure doing business with you Mr. Carter and Ex. Marcius!" Richard said as he shook our hands. After he left the room, I turned to Mr. Carter, who looked weak.
"It will be alright, Mr. Carter, your son will receive your share in less than a week. Enjoy your remaining time with your family and have a good last meal." I said, trying to hide the shiver in my voice. Even after so many, especially ones I caused, deaths were still painful for me. I'm only human.
Mr. Carter smiled for a moment, "Thank you so much Marcius. I truly wasn't expecting to get so much. My son will be able to survive, even if he isn't happy with my decision. Just ensure he accepts the money. Please send them in on your way out."
I nodded then headed out of the room. I gave the family my condolences and sent them in. Samuel Carter, the son, saw me to the door.
"Thank you for what you are doing," he stated, "it is a hard time, but this money will save my family."
"It pleases me to help." I lie. "I will arrive here tomorrow at 6 pm sharp."
With another thanks, Samuel closes the door behind me. As I walk to my car, I think to myself of how there was no pleasure in my job. That luxury ceased to be over a thousand years ago. | I looked at my severance package. €10,000 per annum, not inflationary adjusted. I had executed men since before the Hanging Gardens of Babylon had even been planted, I had been a trophy for the European Empire for over *500* years, and my redundancy payout was €10,000. Those fuckers.
It was an oddity, that after thousands of years of executing people that my career and particular skill set could be eliminated within a few years of "democracy". Characters of fictional stories always had to overcome great and sudden change. But they were always teenagers discovering great abilities. I was a several thousand year old man who knew how to decapitate people.
The European Empire had demanded me as reparations from the war-torn realm of America, their own executioner had demanded retirement and they needed someone who didn't mind providing it. I had refused initially, I had wanted to avoid being a pawn in international disputes. But, when I learned the reason for the request I had to accept; if an executioner requested death, it was dishonourable to deny it. I was not just a treasure for my skill with a sword, but for my reputation as an executioner who did not grow tired of his station.
Once, people jumped at the chance to be executioners, soldiers, judges, assassins. The appeal of an extra hundred years was a tempting one. But, the human brain couldn't tolerate so many memories, and so people realised that life had less joy once your wife had died, your fertility had gone and your fond memories of both (that were clung to so dearly) were lost to the shadows. A suffering beyond all others, that no man deserved.
In the end, executioners became the soldiers, the judges and those who would enact the decisions that no man except one so detached from his own upbringing could make. People grew tired of all this power held by so few. Engineers invented machines that could kill, hoping it would break the curse - they called it the first "Google War". It's effects were mixed. The programmers still rule the many Duchies of the "Silicon Valley" to this day.
Until the governments of the world decided that war was over, that executioners were unnecessary, that society could thrive without them. Apparently those with lives too long lost perspective. They said it with naïvety, as though we didn't know what we'd done, that we didn't realise we'd overstayed our welcome, that we didn't know we deserved the suffering we had to face.
I was sure they'd call us back, insist that we work again when a war started, but war never came. The world was peaceful. United. Well, united in their disdain for the immortal beings their wars had created.
I did the only thing someone who deserved to die could do. I applied to be a Doctor. The executioner cliche. Make up for the years of pain by helping people. But being a Doctor didn't reduce my debt. My ledger told a story of my years still piling up. The hours when you turn off life support, the days you take away when you refuse to continue a prescription, the weeks when you misdiagnose, the years when a patient doesn't have insurance.
I tried to justify it to myself, that I was making up for my work. For the years of pain and suffering that I had caused. For the times I was traded between countries, and unreluctantly killed on their behalf, even when the executions had no just cause. In the end, though, I had to return to what I knew, executions.
The woman behind the desk glanced up at me. "Parlez-vous encore français?"
I nodded curtly.
"Most of our patients will be scared, they don't have long left, or they have a little to long left. You will be adding even longer to your life. You do understand this, don't you?"
I nodded again.
"Welcome to Dignitas. May I just say that I've been a big fan of your work."
I tilted my head a little and narrowed my eyes. A distant memory lit in the back of my mind.
"Back in the fourteen hundreds, well, the *last* fourteen hundreds." She smiled at me. "We're in your debt."
I stood from my seat. "It is you! You do know they stopped teaching that at schools after I went to the South African republic?"
She frowned. "We've never met."
"Au contraire," I reached into my left pocket and pulled out a revolver and placed it on the table. "I met you at the massacre of Hessen." I pulled a few bullets from my other pocket with a cloth. "You were the first woman I met that could do that." I started polishing a bullet.
Her smile faltered. "I'm afraid you really must have me confused with someone -"
"You'd remember that one." I placed a single bullet in the gun. "How many children was it?"
"I've been a doctor for a very long time, you -"
"No." I interrupted. I span the cylinder of the gun. Then popped it into place. "I lost count after a hundred - children, that is." I placed the gun on the table. "It's the only debt not in my ledger."
"You can't seriously want to take my debt."
"It's been a long time since I met someone who deserved to die even half as much as me." I smiled. "How much did you get for your pension in the end?"
"The Columbians didn't pay well. It was a few million euros a year." She snorted. "Non-inflationary of course. Do they even print coins that small any more?"
"I considered publishing my memoirs." I said, leaning back into my chair. "I do miss those days."
"You remember that German?" She asked. "She worked here for a while. She only remembered who I was after rereading her life summary."
"Weren't you married?"
She looked puzzled for a moment. "Maybe? Was that her?" She strummed her hand against the desk. "I think you're thinking of the Russian."
I raised an eyebrow. " *Russians?* It really was a long time ago."
She reached into her desk and pulled out a tattered leather-bound book. "My life summary. 400 pages, regulation size. Some fun stuff in here. I was rereading my childhood the other day. I grew up *before* guns."
I reached for my bag. "I removed the paragraph about teenage experimentation last month. Apparently my mother caught me and the neighbour."
"All of the horrors of humanity and you put that in your summary?"
"Damn right." I smirked. "If you're not gonna' remember your first time, what do you put in there?"
There was a long silence. The gun lay on the table. Staring at both of them.
"How many years?" She asked.
"Too many. You?"
"You don't want to know."
"I deserve it." I picked up the gun. "And so do you. Would you like to go first?"
--- FIN ---
I must confess this sort of came out a bit like word vomit. I think there's potential to rewrite this. My idea was old friends who both felt the great desire to die, but were unable to bring themselves to give up their debt to just anybody. Sort of like a reverse highlander. |
Just seemed like an interesting concept. | [WP] In a world where killing someone means you gain the victim's lifespan, you are an executioner who has served great leaders for thousands of years. | "In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth," lectured the preacher.
*And I'm the Angel of Death. Well.. I kinda am.. Only when I need to be.*
"and there was li-"
"There he is!" interrupted a man armed from head to toe as he breached the doors leading a squad full of men dressed in a similar fashion. The churchgoers were frightened but somehow managed to leave the building in a timely manner. It was just the man and the agents inside and around the church once the panic settled.
*That was quicker than I expected. Bravo.*
"Put your hands where we can see them and don't make any sudden movements!" shouted the officer. Kane did as he was told, yet this made the agents tense up even more.
"Why don't we just shoot him?!"
"I bet we walked right into a trap!!"
"If I wanted you all dead you'd be dead by now," Kane said calmly. The agents suddenly had an even more difficult time keeping together at this point. Kane stood from his chair, slowly, put his hands in the air and then behind his head and knelt down. He wasn't immortal, after all.
There was a deafening silence in the room. No one moved. No one spoke. Finally an engine was heard coming to a stop in front of the building. A door shuts. And footsteps.
*This is new. Sheriff? Head of the FBI? Maybe I'll be taken in as a secret agent. Just like the movies.*
The crowd of agents split as the mysterious person walked through them.
"Kane Grey. Or do you prefer Peter Fisher? Or Samson Armstrong? Whatever you go by now, you're probably the toughest person I've had the pleasure of tracking down; and I'm very skilled at my trade."
"You can call me whatever you like, it doesn't matter much anyway. You don't sound like a one of the feds and they did't look like government agents. You a bounty hunter? Vigilante? Tony Stark?"
"Not quite. I am affiliated with the government, yes. However, I don't play by their rules. You could say I have them, 'by the balls'."
Kane chuckled. He knew now.
"So I guess you're the yin to my yang then, huh? Does that make me the bad guy?"
"I don't think you're a bad guy, no. You're far from that. I've seen your victims. They were all victimizers. Victimizers who were given second chances and didn't right their wrongs. This is precisely why I've come to you."
"You here to give me some sort of medal or something? Do you want me to join you in your quest to off the baddies? Come on man, can't you see I found Jesus and shit. I'm a new person, I don't do that anymore," Kane taunted.
"I find that hard to believe. We both share something similar, Kane. It's that we have a soft spot for them. We both are too afraid to let them rule themselves. Our intervening is what keeps the world running 'round. Now, you can join me and fight the good fight, or you can join the victimizers and be of no use to anyone."
*"By the balls." One way to put it.*
"Look. I think I've lived long enough. Death by my own hand is not an option, and neither is death to the state. So how about you let me know what I already think I know and then we work out a deal?"
"You don't have much time for deciding, Mr. Grey."
"It's a pretty big choice to make. Cut me some slack."
"You've got five minutes," said the stranger as she turned to her men.
"The perimeter has been secured, m'am."
"I told you; if I wanted you dead, you'd be dead."
"Less talking more thinking Mr. Grey."
"Listen, whatever-your-name-is, I'm kind of deciding what to do with the rest of my life."
"It sounds like you know what to do, you just don't want to do it. Are you afraid?"
"I'm not afraid."
"Then?"
"Fine. I'll go."
"Excellent choice, you won't regret it."
--- | I looked at my severance package. €10,000 per annum, not inflationary adjusted. I had executed men since before the Hanging Gardens of Babylon had even been planted, I had been a trophy for the European Empire for over *500* years, and my redundancy payout was €10,000. Those fuckers.
It was an oddity, that after thousands of years of executing people that my career and particular skill set could be eliminated within a few years of "democracy". Characters of fictional stories always had to overcome great and sudden change. But they were always teenagers discovering great abilities. I was a several thousand year old man who knew how to decapitate people.
The European Empire had demanded me as reparations from the war-torn realm of America, their own executioner had demanded retirement and they needed someone who didn't mind providing it. I had refused initially, I had wanted to avoid being a pawn in international disputes. But, when I learned the reason for the request I had to accept; if an executioner requested death, it was dishonourable to deny it. I was not just a treasure for my skill with a sword, but for my reputation as an executioner who did not grow tired of his station.
Once, people jumped at the chance to be executioners, soldiers, judges, assassins. The appeal of an extra hundred years was a tempting one. But, the human brain couldn't tolerate so many memories, and so people realised that life had less joy once your wife had died, your fertility had gone and your fond memories of both (that were clung to so dearly) were lost to the shadows. A suffering beyond all others, that no man deserved.
In the end, executioners became the soldiers, the judges and those who would enact the decisions that no man except one so detached from his own upbringing could make. People grew tired of all this power held by so few. Engineers invented machines that could kill, hoping it would break the curse - they called it the first "Google War". It's effects were mixed. The programmers still rule the many Duchies of the "Silicon Valley" to this day.
Until the governments of the world decided that war was over, that executioners were unnecessary, that society could thrive without them. Apparently those with lives too long lost perspective. They said it with naïvety, as though we didn't know what we'd done, that we didn't realise we'd overstayed our welcome, that we didn't know we deserved the suffering we had to face.
I was sure they'd call us back, insist that we work again when a war started, but war never came. The world was peaceful. United. Well, united in their disdain for the immortal beings their wars had created.
I did the only thing someone who deserved to die could do. I applied to be a Doctor. The executioner cliche. Make up for the years of pain by helping people. But being a Doctor didn't reduce my debt. My ledger told a story of my years still piling up. The hours when you turn off life support, the days you take away when you refuse to continue a prescription, the weeks when you misdiagnose, the years when a patient doesn't have insurance.
I tried to justify it to myself, that I was making up for my work. For the years of pain and suffering that I had caused. For the times I was traded between countries, and unreluctantly killed on their behalf, even when the executions had no just cause. In the end, though, I had to return to what I knew, executions.
The woman behind the desk glanced up at me. "Parlez-vous encore français?"
I nodded curtly.
"Most of our patients will be scared, they don't have long left, or they have a little to long left. You will be adding even longer to your life. You do understand this, don't you?"
I nodded again.
"Welcome to Dignitas. May I just say that I've been a big fan of your work."
I tilted my head a little and narrowed my eyes. A distant memory lit in the back of my mind.
"Back in the fourteen hundreds, well, the *last* fourteen hundreds." She smiled at me. "We're in your debt."
I stood from my seat. "It is you! You do know they stopped teaching that at schools after I went to the South African republic?"
She frowned. "We've never met."
"Au contraire," I reached into my left pocket and pulled out a revolver and placed it on the table. "I met you at the massacre of Hessen." I pulled a few bullets from my other pocket with a cloth. "You were the first woman I met that could do that." I started polishing a bullet.
Her smile faltered. "I'm afraid you really must have me confused with someone -"
"You'd remember that one." I placed a single bullet in the gun. "How many children was it?"
"I've been a doctor for a very long time, you -"
"No." I interrupted. I span the cylinder of the gun. Then popped it into place. "I lost count after a hundred - children, that is." I placed the gun on the table. "It's the only debt not in my ledger."
"You can't seriously want to take my debt."
"It's been a long time since I met someone who deserved to die even half as much as me." I smiled. "How much did you get for your pension in the end?"
"The Columbians didn't pay well. It was a few million euros a year." She snorted. "Non-inflationary of course. Do they even print coins that small any more?"
"I considered publishing my memoirs." I said, leaning back into my chair. "I do miss those days."
"You remember that German?" She asked. "She worked here for a while. She only remembered who I was after rereading her life summary."
"Weren't you married?"
She looked puzzled for a moment. "Maybe? Was that her?" She strummed her hand against the desk. "I think you're thinking of the Russian."
I raised an eyebrow. " *Russians?* It really was a long time ago."
She reached into her desk and pulled out a tattered leather-bound book. "My life summary. 400 pages, regulation size. Some fun stuff in here. I was rereading my childhood the other day. I grew up *before* guns."
I reached for my bag. "I removed the paragraph about teenage experimentation last month. Apparently my mother caught me and the neighbour."
"All of the horrors of humanity and you put that in your summary?"
"Damn right." I smirked. "If you're not gonna' remember your first time, what do you put in there?"
There was a long silence. The gun lay on the table. Staring at both of them.
"How many years?" She asked.
"Too many. You?"
"You don't want to know."
"I deserve it." I picked up the gun. "And so do you. Would you like to go first?"
--- FIN ---
I must confess this sort of came out a bit like word vomit. I think there's potential to rewrite this. My idea was old friends who both felt the great desire to die, but were unable to bring themselves to give up their debt to just anybody. Sort of like a reverse highlander. |
Just seemed like an interesting concept. | [WP] In a world where killing someone means you gain the victim's lifespan, you are an executioner who has served great leaders for thousands of years. | I saw his lips move as he was telling me the reasoning behind the task. I wasn't paying attention, my eyes wandered the oddly shaped office. Oh how the times have changed. There used to be many of us around the world, we've gone under many names, my favourite one was executioner although that time has since passed. I've been known as anything from a viking to a hangman.
Where a life had to be taken there we were. Not everyone could do it and those of us who could, we were valued due to our knowledge and experience. If we took a life we'd absorb the remaining lifespan of the victim but again times changed. We were deemed outlaws and hunted. We had to work in the shadows. Assassins was another name given to us. During my lifetime I had seen empires rise and fall, cities being built from the first hut to enormous skylines, I had learned a hundred languages and to fight with any weapon possible. But not a lot mattered in today's society, most of us were in hiding. The younger ones entered the armies of countries for the chance to kill. Some would panic as their lifespan came towards an end and in their panic commit murders. They didn't last very long in the modern society, too many rules and rights, people cared so much nowadays if a life was taken, it didn't make it any easier for us.
"His name is Rile F. Daltho, do you know it?"
I snapped out of my thought pattern and looked at the man. He had dark skin and a serious face. Rile, I knew that name and many others the man had used. He had fought for the Persians once upon a time and for the Germans a few decades back. He was the one of very few with a lifespan as lengthy as mine but he wasn't patient. I had seen him fuel the words and materials needed to start wars just so he could fight. He'd cover up for himself and disappear afterwards.
"Yeah I know him, our paths have crossed once or twice, but this is no ordinary man."
"I know, but it must be done and that's why I've asked you in here,. You know what he's capable of and what he's doing."
There was a crisis going on in Europe and I had suspected that Rile might be behind this. He was the main reason of most “evil” things during the last century. Humanity had worked further and further away from the savagery and brutality that was in the olden days, making it hard for the like of me and Rile to progress our lifespan. I found alternative ways but he never had the patience. If a war broke out I would be able to join in and get a few years added but in wars there was always risks. I had become used to working in the shadows.
"And if I do this, will you grant me what I ask for?"
The man turned his back towards me and stared out the window. This was always the toughest moment for them. A life had to be taken to save thousands if not more, but it would also cost them. The man sighed before turning to me.
"You'll be put to permanently work with the abortions."
Even though most of us had been forgotten, there were still extremely strict background checks when working with abortions to prevent us from accessing all that lifespan, some places even banned abortions just to keep it under control.
"I'll find Rile, don't worry Mr. President"
I grinned as I saw the discomfort on the man's face before I turned and walked out the oval shaped room to find the man who could grant my access to immortality. | I looked at my severance package. €10,000 per annum, not inflationary adjusted. I had executed men since before the Hanging Gardens of Babylon had even been planted, I had been a trophy for the European Empire for over *500* years, and my redundancy payout was €10,000. Those fuckers.
It was an oddity, that after thousands of years of executing people that my career and particular skill set could be eliminated within a few years of "democracy". Characters of fictional stories always had to overcome great and sudden change. But they were always teenagers discovering great abilities. I was a several thousand year old man who knew how to decapitate people.
The European Empire had demanded me as reparations from the war-torn realm of America, their own executioner had demanded retirement and they needed someone who didn't mind providing it. I had refused initially, I had wanted to avoid being a pawn in international disputes. But, when I learned the reason for the request I had to accept; if an executioner requested death, it was dishonourable to deny it. I was not just a treasure for my skill with a sword, but for my reputation as an executioner who did not grow tired of his station.
Once, people jumped at the chance to be executioners, soldiers, judges, assassins. The appeal of an extra hundred years was a tempting one. But, the human brain couldn't tolerate so many memories, and so people realised that life had less joy once your wife had died, your fertility had gone and your fond memories of both (that were clung to so dearly) were lost to the shadows. A suffering beyond all others, that no man deserved.
In the end, executioners became the soldiers, the judges and those who would enact the decisions that no man except one so detached from his own upbringing could make. People grew tired of all this power held by so few. Engineers invented machines that could kill, hoping it would break the curse - they called it the first "Google War". It's effects were mixed. The programmers still rule the many Duchies of the "Silicon Valley" to this day.
Until the governments of the world decided that war was over, that executioners were unnecessary, that society could thrive without them. Apparently those with lives too long lost perspective. They said it with naïvety, as though we didn't know what we'd done, that we didn't realise we'd overstayed our welcome, that we didn't know we deserved the suffering we had to face.
I was sure they'd call us back, insist that we work again when a war started, but war never came. The world was peaceful. United. Well, united in their disdain for the immortal beings their wars had created.
I did the only thing someone who deserved to die could do. I applied to be a Doctor. The executioner cliche. Make up for the years of pain by helping people. But being a Doctor didn't reduce my debt. My ledger told a story of my years still piling up. The hours when you turn off life support, the days you take away when you refuse to continue a prescription, the weeks when you misdiagnose, the years when a patient doesn't have insurance.
I tried to justify it to myself, that I was making up for my work. For the years of pain and suffering that I had caused. For the times I was traded between countries, and unreluctantly killed on their behalf, even when the executions had no just cause. In the end, though, I had to return to what I knew, executions.
The woman behind the desk glanced up at me. "Parlez-vous encore français?"
I nodded curtly.
"Most of our patients will be scared, they don't have long left, or they have a little to long left. You will be adding even longer to your life. You do understand this, don't you?"
I nodded again.
"Welcome to Dignitas. May I just say that I've been a big fan of your work."
I tilted my head a little and narrowed my eyes. A distant memory lit in the back of my mind.
"Back in the fourteen hundreds, well, the *last* fourteen hundreds." She smiled at me. "We're in your debt."
I stood from my seat. "It is you! You do know they stopped teaching that at schools after I went to the South African republic?"
She frowned. "We've never met."
"Au contraire," I reached into my left pocket and pulled out a revolver and placed it on the table. "I met you at the massacre of Hessen." I pulled a few bullets from my other pocket with a cloth. "You were the first woman I met that could do that." I started polishing a bullet.
Her smile faltered. "I'm afraid you really must have me confused with someone -"
"You'd remember that one." I placed a single bullet in the gun. "How many children was it?"
"I've been a doctor for a very long time, you -"
"No." I interrupted. I span the cylinder of the gun. Then popped it into place. "I lost count after a hundred - children, that is." I placed the gun on the table. "It's the only debt not in my ledger."
"You can't seriously want to take my debt."
"It's been a long time since I met someone who deserved to die even half as much as me." I smiled. "How much did you get for your pension in the end?"
"The Columbians didn't pay well. It was a few million euros a year." She snorted. "Non-inflationary of course. Do they even print coins that small any more?"
"I considered publishing my memoirs." I said, leaning back into my chair. "I do miss those days."
"You remember that German?" She asked. "She worked here for a while. She only remembered who I was after rereading her life summary."
"Weren't you married?"
She looked puzzled for a moment. "Maybe? Was that her?" She strummed her hand against the desk. "I think you're thinking of the Russian."
I raised an eyebrow. " *Russians?* It really was a long time ago."
She reached into her desk and pulled out a tattered leather-bound book. "My life summary. 400 pages, regulation size. Some fun stuff in here. I was rereading my childhood the other day. I grew up *before* guns."
I reached for my bag. "I removed the paragraph about teenage experimentation last month. Apparently my mother caught me and the neighbour."
"All of the horrors of humanity and you put that in your summary?"
"Damn right." I smirked. "If you're not gonna' remember your first time, what do you put in there?"
There was a long silence. The gun lay on the table. Staring at both of them.
"How many years?" She asked.
"Too many. You?"
"You don't want to know."
"I deserve it." I picked up the gun. "And so do you. Would you like to go first?"
--- FIN ---
I must confess this sort of came out a bit like word vomit. I think there's potential to rewrite this. My idea was old friends who both felt the great desire to die, but were unable to bring themselves to give up their debt to just anybody. Sort of like a reverse highlander. |
Subsets and Splits