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Post by grandmastapete on Jun 19, 2009 12:23:27 GMT -8
This is going to be a thread devoted to a collection of stories that were started, but never finished. Maybe some poetry and a few "completed" short stories as well. Critiques are welcome.
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Post by grandmastapete on Jun 19, 2009 12:41:33 GMT -8
It was a hot and steamy night. One of those nights where you walk outside and feel like you're in a giant pressure cooker. That's how it usually was here in Vice City, a hot and steamy night in a hot and steamy town with the stench of stale, squalid air in your nostrils, and this night was no different.
The ceiling fan ran its rounds with as much enthusiasm as a lobotomized wino. Needless to say it didn't help the heat problem, at all. So I stayed by the window, hoping for a cool breeze to come my way.
Alone in my "office" I waited, with a slug of bourbon in one hand and my beloved in the other. The only thing I needed to finish my pretty little picture would've been a flophouse gal from Saint Mary's sitting on my lap, but they never let me hire anymore on account of my… condition. You see I've got this little problem with my problems, hence the bourbon. Mary calls it alcoholism; I like to call it therapy, and contrary to popular belief blood and booze bond like best buddies. Nothing washes away the stench of blood like the sharp sting of a slug of bourbon.
As I sat in my stupor with a sad disposition and a shot of the sweet stuff, the phone rang. I was surprised that it did, seeing as how I stopped paying the bills. I saved my money for the important things in life: bourbon and bullets. But since this was a rare slip-up on behalf of the phone service I decided to pick up. I stood up and walked to the table with my bourbon and beloved still in hand. I took one last swig, set down the glass, and picked up the phone.
Phones are funny things, can't think of anything else that can change someone's emotions into electric pulses, and whiz em through miles and miles of wire to someone who couldn't give a rat's ass. And let me tell ya, the way this lady was talking the lines were pumped full of 'em. This babe was blubbering all over the place, bawling about her baby. Baby this, baby that, the babe just wouldn't quit her blabbing. Seeing as how the conversation wasn't going anywhere, I was about to go back to my bottle. But then, she mentioned the Butcher.
The Butcher, also known as Brian Huxley, his work was bloody, brutal, and downright brilliant. He was around for a long time, one of the best wet workers in town, and for a while I've been wanting to whack him.
It wasn't his work; there are worse jobs, bill and tax collectors being the bottom rung. It was his hobby. Brian Huxley, known as the Butcher, the Baby Butcher, had a sick, sick hobby.
I boozed with bourbon, the Butcher chiseled children. Chopped em up, cut em to ribbons, probably watched em cry themselves to death, as the convulsions pushed the blood from their tiny veins that much quicker.
I poured bourbon, the Butcher poured blood, and from the sounds of it, if I didn't hurry, he'd spill this kid's blood too. So I took the job, money was already something I had in short supply, bourbon was scarce, and now time was on the damned endangered species list. I had to hurry; the Butcher was fast, killed almost as quickly as I did, almost.
I grabbed my coat, my beloved, her little sister, and their close friend Monsieur Staby. I was locked and loaded, so I walked out of the room turning back only to look at my last bottle of bourbon. "Hold down the f*cking fort for me.", I said as I stepped out into the pressure cooker.
Honestly, I don't know what I was doing writing this. The amount of alliteration is a bit much, but what the hell, sue me.
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Post by grandmastapete on Jun 19, 2009 13:45:57 GMT -8
Not sure what I was going for when I first wrote this. Just kinda bored, I guess.
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Post by grandmastapete on Jun 27, 2009 22:54:36 GMT -8
So... I've got a ton of ideas floating through my head but for some reason, the reasoning behind these ideas elude me. I can get to the middle, but can't remember the beginning. I'm too young to be having senior moments... -__-
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Post by tetsu on Jun 28, 2009 13:46:44 GMT -8
<.< dude go finish up the first story up there, that piece was interesting.
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Post by grandmastapete on Jul 8, 2009 19:31:59 GMT -8
It had all gone to shit. This wasn’t what some would call “downhill.” This was a veritable free-falling cluster-peanut. It wasn’t as if we came unprepared, we were locked and loaded, just not for… whatever this thing was. I pivoted around the doorway quickly scanning the room with the sights of my 9mill. The room was dim, but I quickly spotted the dark figure in the corner, the walls around it stained darker than the night. I squeezed off a pair of shots with a quick double tap, the rasp bark of the pistol ending in wet slaps as the rounds drove home. Center mass. The figure turned quickly, his skin a pale contrast to the walls stained with darkness. He rushed toward me with inhuman speed with a blood-curdling shriek that pierced my eardrums. The shock at the ineffectiveness of my rounds and the sudden fear at what lunged at me swirled into a sudden burst of insight, a veritable epiphany as to what my situation was. “Oh, peanut.”
My legs were frozen in place, but my arms still obeyed my commands. I brought my pistol to bear and fired at arms length, filling whatever it was with round after round of hot lead. Five rounds barked out of the barrel. The first three found a comfortable place to nestle within his vital triangle, and the last two penetrated his skull, my aim thrown upwards by the blessing of recoil. His body went limp in midair, but his mass still hurtled forward, slamming into my chest and throwing me off balance. Reflex kicked in and I managed to roll backward quickly enough to throw his dead weight off of me. I remained on the floor, breathing heavily. I gasped for air in greedy gulps as the shock settled. Even in the darkness I could see the chalk white of my knuckles blood drained from the vice-like hold I had on the comforting, life-saving grip of my pistol. The sounds of heavy breathing replaced the ringing in my ears and I remained on the floor for a few more moments, trying to catch my breath. Breathe in, breathe out, I thought myself, inhaling through my nose and exhaling through my mouth. I continued my breathing mantra following the sound of my own breath. In, out, in, out, in, out, in, in, out, out. Wait, what?
I scrambled back onto my feet, pistol still in hand, and turned in time to see the pale figure struggling to stand. His breathing was slow and ragged, courtesy of the trio of rounds I had delivered. Clack, clack, clack, three rounds fell to the floor, the bloodied lead bouncing once before resting on the cold tile. And the flower of gore that blossomed from the back of his head folded its petals back over itself. His breathing returned to normal, he was unscathed. I panicked.
Three rounds barked and the slide locked back, empty. The first shot was high, too high, and struck the wall behind him. I winced at the poor marksmanship and lowered my arms before firing again. This time, I didn’t miss he simply dodged with a sudden pirouette that tore him out of my pistols sights. I adjusted a second time, firing with a blind hope that my shot would find its mark.
He didn’t expect me to adjust a second time, and it was apparent upon his smiling face as he ended his spin. The smug expression plastered on his face didn’t last long, as the round tore it’s way through his right eye and blossomed out the back of his head again. I didn’t wait to see what happened next. And the dull thud of his body hitting the floor was barely audible over the sound of my heavy footfalls. I ejected the empty magazine and slapped in a fresh one, the steel slide chambering a new round with a satisfying clack.
The floor plan of the building was simple enough. Rooms radiating out of the spiraling staircase that speared through the center of the building. It made navigation easy, and retreat second nature. I sprinted down the stairs, taking them two at a time. The dull thud of each footfall sent aches through my ankles and knees, punishment for their insubordination earlier. Relief quickly replaced pain as the lobby became visible below, the usual brilliance of its decadence marred by the sudden power outage. Hitting the ground floor was a brief reprieve and I looked back up to view the path that had taken me to safety. Or so I thought.
A familiar pale face peeked over the edge, a white blot visible through the telescopic tunnel driven through the building. His tenacity was admirable in a way, fucking annoying in another. I was heavy advocate in the latter. He hopped over the railing, dropping rapidly toward the earth. My hands snapped upward and I fired two rounds before making my way toward the exit. I took two steps before I heard the light slap of leather against tile behind me. But I paid no heed, the familiar shine of red and blue welcomed me outside, the rotating lights indicating sanctuary. The shrill shriek behind me had put my relief on hold, but it didn’t extinguish my optimism. I ran.
Ten feet, ten feet was all I could cross before I felt five icy shards dig into my back. They shred through the toughness of my leather jacket and tore into my flesh like icy teeth. The flesh in my back burned as my legs endeavored to my safe haven, but my body remained tethered. I was hooked. But not for long. The feet that had attempted to carry me to safety were lifted off the ground. I let out a cry of agony as the fibers in my back tore under the strain of my own weight, and as if on queue, I was thrown with a sudden and unexpected violence and struck the wall.
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Wham, the sound of a cardboard box falling heavily upon the floor, this earned more than a few disgruntled looks from the office. I muttered a quiet apology, and most eyes dropped back down to whatever they were doing beforehand. The box wasn’t too hefty, the sudden change of precincts didn’t give one the opportunity to dig in, but I managed. The cubicle had a lemony scent, the citric acidity a pale attempt to wash away the history that lingered. It was a harsh contrast, the blank desk like an empty canvas alone in a room awash with bustling paperwork and mugs of stale coffee. Remaining the odd man out didn’t seem like the best idea, so I set to work. My items quickly found their place upon the table, arranged in my own personal feng-shui; none of this balance of the universe malarkey, just good old Maslow. The oldies of the force complained that police work had become too high tech, a distraction that deviated them from the old black and white days of cops and robbers. Good guys nabbing the bad guys before supper. But the war on crime was like any other war, a desperate arms race, and the force was lucky enough to have taxpayer support. Out with the old, in with the new. I continued with my unpacking, minor adjustments made here and there as I made the space my own.
The rapid establishment of my space earned a few malignant glances, as if I were some terrible plague encroaching upon their territory. I could pick up slight murmuring over the usual bustle of the precinct, but it was to be expected. All in all, it seemed to be going pretty smoothly.
“So, you the rookie”, said a gruff voice, more of an accusation than a question. I turned to look over the cubicle wall and spotted a dark and worn face. His face was rough; the furrow in his brow was heavy from years of frustration, and lines of dismay left grim slashes along the sides of his mouth as if holding back a smile that would never come. Streaks of grey ran through his hair and left flecks upon the sparse stubble upon his face. He was an oldie.
“Uh, yeah”, I replied, noting the contempt he hadn’t bothered to hide. This man didn’t seem the friendly type. He gripped the flimsy wall of my cubicle with chalky and calloused hands. This man had obviously seen his fair share of action and had a penchant for the nitty-gritty. “This isn’t your desk”, he said, matter-of-factly, “Better clean up, Rooks.” I gave him a grunt to show that I understood, but the paraphernalia that remained on my desk said otherwise. It was typical muscle flexing, measuring our dicks to see where I would fit in the hierarchy.
I averted my gaze, assuming that after he had asserted his intent, he would leave. He didn’t. Even without looking up, I could feel his eyes boring into the side of my skull, watching me as if he expected me to leap out of my seat and obey his command. “I said, up, Rooks”, he asserted again, more forcefully this time. I had to hand it to him; he was a tenacious spartan, but a spartan nonetheless. But that spartan was my senior, so backed out of my chair and stood up.
He stood almost a head taller than my five feet ten inches and his shoulders were just as wide.
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Post by grandmastapete on Jul 8, 2009 20:40:05 GMT -8
DEAR GOD. I CAN'T EVEN USE THE WORD *SSUME! ASSUME!
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Post by grandmastapete on Jul 8, 2009 20:40:54 GMT -8
*sstered, ASSERTED! AS*ERTED
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Post by Mizari on Jul 20, 2009 20:50:01 GMT -8
my apologies for all that filter nonsense but you should be good to go now.
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Post by grandmastapete on Sept 13, 2009 10:12:15 GMT -8
Rage, Rage, Rage.
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