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Rofl House; THEY MADE ME CHANGE THE TITLE
Topic Started: Oct 9 2007, 04:41 PM (125 Views)
Clay Farris
Weedle
The house was nestled in amongst relatively innocuous, disturbingly identical neighbors in an astonishingly stereotypical middle-class environment. The entire street was resplendent with atomic explosion-white picket fencing, perfectly symmetrical shrubs that could have accented a piece of artwork, porches with swinging benches and garages that were mostly devoid of their automobile residents at this time of the day.

Clay's parents were at work, of course; most people his age were. He, however, had a professional degree in the career of slacker who never got off his ass to go to college and leeched off of his parents until he was twenty one.

So adept was he at this incredibly taxing job that even on the day he had declared he would begin his actual profession he was still in bed at one in the afternoon, attempting to discern a map of Opaddeka in the cracks and cobwebs on his ceiling. A small, improbably yellow spider was crawling across where he perceived Radloff wa

--SPLACK

fuckin spider.

The hard soled slipper Clay had thrown up at the unfortunate arachnid actually stuck to the ceiling for a good second or two before it detached with a horrific sticky noise and plopped down onto the floor again.

bugger. Does this mean I actually have to get up?

With much irrational complaint and feigned creaking of joints, Clay finally flopped out of his bed, slogging towards the bathroom like a hungover zombie. He didnt make the bed; he never made it. Itd just get rumpled up and wrinkled anyway.

The bathroom was devoid of cockroaches, for a change. He propped his face up on his hands, elbows digging into the sink edges, and stared speculatively at himself in the mirror. He had no shirt, as usual, but he knew enough about the trainwreck that was his muscular development that he didnt particularly want to look at it.


Instead, Clay looked at his face.


It always made him think of something god had done half a job of sculpting, put his tools away, took a three hour lunch break, turned it into a pub crawl and never came back to finish. His eyes didnt even match, hiding under brown hair that wouldnt have looked out of place on a rather well-used mop. Which he was now attempting to make into a clean mop while scouring his face for new freckles, pimples, and/or cancerous growths.


He paused in the midst of putting the comb back with its hair stylist buddies. Struck with a sudden idea and a colossal idiotic grin, Clay went trotting back into his room, where he promptly dug a shoebox out from under his bed.


A shoebox with no shoes in it, coincidentally.


Just a (near) mint condition Walther PPK, fresh from eBay as of two months ago and still loaded from the tenth time he had fiddled with it over the weekend. He fished the gun out of the box, and went back in front of the mirror with his new toy.


Clay stared smugly at himself in his best Mr. Clay Farris Make My Day Spy pose; gun held out, arms straight and aimed for a wholly inoffensive section of the mirror. After a moment, he clicked off the safety, and resumed his posturing.


With his fingers on the trigger.


Im so bada


[size=6]BANG[/size]



Somewhere between the sharp, growing bruise on his forehead and the distinct sound of small bits of glass falling down to the ground and shattering into still smaller pieces, Clay realized that he had royally fucked something up.

oh shit.

Namely, the mirror.

Which now had a .380 ACP shaped hole in it.


The glass around the shot spiderwebbed out into a maze of cracks, small pieces dropping away with a tinkling noise.

Clay looked around a bit nervously.

no one saw that.

He sloooowly brought the gun back on line, switched the safety back ONand proceeded to get dressed, drag his backpack out of the closet and check it for bombs, anthrax and hitchhiking children. Under two minutes.

If he wasn't so damned paranoid about his parents coming home before he left, he would have felt quite proud of himself. He managed to get the matching socks today!


The last thing Clay packed up was the cause of the morning's troubles. No, not his gun ignorance.

The gun itself, safely in a form-fitting holster that hopefully wouldn't cause it to discharge while it was in the backpack. A fantastic conversation starter, if one liked talking to paramedics.

Packed, zipped up, and still resembling a small lumpy animal with straps attached to it, the backpack went to its usual place on Clay's spine as he took the stairs two at a time and skidded to an unintentional homerun finish into the kitchen. Which probably smushed his poor wallet.


Clay poked his head out of the back door, looking for potential witnesses. He sure as hell didn't want the neighbors to see him after he had just shot a hole in the wall. Not that there'd be much he could do about them, but still.


After assuring himself that there was indeed no one hiding behind the impossibly small tree, Clay left the house.





A few minutes later he realized he had forgotten his shoes.


And needed a toe splint.


...this was not the best start to my training career. I hate rocks.
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Steel Cerberus
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Go for it, run towards it, dive in head first. Live life with no regrets!
While looking for the shoes, a rope fell from the top of his closet or wherever he happend to be looking and onto his head. Hey, an Escape Rope with three charges. That may be usefull. Something hard also fell and collided with his head, furthering the wtfery. A Poketech. How'd that get there? May as well take that too, huh?

But anyways, when he finally obtained said shoes, he got a bit of a surprise. Both good and bad. Good because it was money! Bad because it was rammed in the end of his shoe and he managed to ram his toes against it.

But, when he finally fished all the coins out, and checked the shoes, there was a total of about 5,000z.
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