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Sometimes I Cough And Words Come Out
Occasionally I get the urge to write things that A ) Aren't SotF and B ) Aren't required for a batty writing class. I thought about maybe starting a blog for them and then I beat the idea to death with a truncheon because lolblogs. Instead, I'll just throw it here so there's an on-going, up to date record of my progressive madness for the inevitable court case after someone finds me tromping around a public park in armor made of live, very confused dogs.

First is a story I wrote based on the prompt "Write a work of epic fiction in 100 words or less." It's got words and may or may not be epic, so I feel that I have mastered this particular prompt.

Blasphemy of Word and Deed, 99 words.

"The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak." Matthew 26:41.


The cold, unyielding flesh lay against the cool, steel of the table. It mocked him with its stillness.

Bone-thin fingers rummaged through rusty tools. Occasionally, the gently swinging light above would flash at just the right angle to send a ray into the dimly lit shelf, highlighting his selections.

Scalpel, then saw.

It would yield.

It would warm and tense.

With his butchery, it would rise.

A thin, satisfied smile marred his stiff face.


When the spirit is dead and broken, the flesh becomes deliciously willing.

Fallout Mafia: Sign up thread
Jun 28 2014, 05:31 PM
VOTE: DocBalance

Oh, and I'd love to join! :)
You, sir, are a ruffian and a scoundrel. ;)

Fallout Mafia: Sign up thread
I'm up for it!

BDA Quote Nomination Thread #8
"What has a face but never cries?"

Something Something Movie Reference
((Breaking post order to exit the DZ))

Paris was ready to leave. Finally. This was getting tiresome, and progressively more pointless. Still, part of him was disappointed. Once again, he had no idea what they'd been trying to accomplish here, or if they succeeded. That feeling of uncertainty just wouldn't be silenced. Ever since he'd left Jaq, he'd felt rather...directionless. Paris was supposed to change that.

But Joachim knew as little with Paris as he had on his own. That frustrated him. How was he meant to take directions that were never given in the first place? How was he meant to serve Paris's plan when Paris, by all appearances other than his own, smug satisfaction, had no plan?


It wouldn't due to confront him now. Later, perhaps, when it was just the two of them.

Later, it would all make sense.

((Joachim Lovelace Continued I Was Once Alive))

V6 Concepts Thread

No but for real, building these at the character stage for pre-game helped me really flesh out my thoughts on my lads, and I think it'd be a cool exercise for anyone musically inclined. Props to Rachel for being the first to do it over on Mini!

Alex Darby.

Jacob Brooks.

Ulysses "Motherfucking" Fury.

The Place
The face. Why did they always go for the face? She didn't give a fuck about her face.

The face wasn't a focus. It hurt, but it wouldn't stop you from coming. What they didn't seem to grasp was that the face was a distraction, to throw somebody off and break momentum.

The second front never came from Rosemary, though, so Alda started it herself. As Rosemary cawed and bit into her face, her heel came down on Rosemary's foot, pressing into it hard and grinding it into the floor.

At the same time, her hand slipped down around Rosemary's neck while hers were busy drawing flesh wounds around her face, and squeezed down tight, locking it into a vice and trying to push her back to get a little breathing room.

The Place
Alda's fist, meet Rosemary's stupid fucking face.

Rosemary's stupid fucking face, meet Alda's fist.

They got acquainted fast.

The Place
"Fuck off, kill-joy."

Alda was in no mood to put up with Rosemary's hypocritical bullshit. Not now. She finally had something to distract herself with, and Rosemary wasn't going to ruin it for her.

"My friends abandoned me. Just like you abandoned yours."

Her hand wrapped around her drink and lifted it to her face, letting her mutter into it as she sipped.

"Least I didn't kill any of mine."

The Place
At first, she was gonna let it ride. She didn't recognize the guy and she didn't really care about what happened down there. She was satisfied with just watching Kathryn's precious moral high ground slip away, and seeing that crazy looking chick from the swim team stalk Ian while he had his little breakdown.

Then Rosemary spoke up.

Fuck it. If Rosemary thought it was a bad idea, she'd support it.

"I'm in."

Alda swung towards the stranger and sat down closer to him.

"What're we betting? And what're we betting on?"

Her eyes met Rosemary's over her shoulder, just waiting for her to speak up.

V5 Fifteenth Rolls
Oh whoops, I forgot to post, but Alda died days ago.

Something Something Movie Reference
The situation was growing more and more baffling. Was Paris trying to provoke Zubin? Should he be ready for that? Why do it in the first place?

And why had Zubin and Claire barely so much as glanced at him since he came in? Not that he was opposed to being ignored, but it was...curious. Nearly everyone he'd encountered had been uncomfortable or outright hostile to his presence, but these two seemed altogether more concerned with Paris.

He certainly had a dominating presence. Was he doing it on purpose, though? Was he trying to distract them from Joachim, and if so, why? What was his motivation? What was Joachim meant to do?

Thinking back on all of his encounters with Paris, he realized that question rang through all of them. Paris rarely gave him specific directions or instructions. Things just...happened. And they always seemed to go in a way that ultimately pleased him.


Joachim kept silent for now, continuing to bury the body deep within the sands. The sooner it vanished, the sooner they could leave. The sooner he could stop thinking.

Cut, Print, Sell

Tony was dying out there, but it was his fault for trying to stumble out a polite way to handle this clusterfuck. Jared was inclined to let the poor bastard drown, but that probably wasn't the healthiest way handle the situation. He wasn't interested in going back to playing hush puppies until the guy just left, so he might as well throw in.

"Look, Andrews...I think what Tony's getting at is that this whole twist is kinda absurd."

Blinking. Had the thought never crossed through that empty little head of his? Or had he just been hoping they'd miss it? "Absurd, s-sir?" he stammered out, smoothing down the front of his coat as he spoke. "Absurd how?"

Jared sighed and leafed through the stack of notes they'd been given. "Absurd like catching the attention of a U.S. aircraft carrier with smoke signals."

He let the statement hang for a few moments, staring into the young man's eyes. Then, he tapped a line half-way down the page.

"On a wooden life raft?"

Nervous laughter sounded out from behind the flip charts. "Weeelll," he mumbled as he peeked through the sheets, "Obviously there may have been some oversight there, it's just an early treatment-"

"No, no," Jared interrupted, "I get that. I just think, if Tony and I are on the same page here, that we're worried this might be indicative of what you've got as a whole, here. And given the, uh...sensitive nature of the source material..."

"Oh for God's sake." Fucking finally, she was up. And it sounded like Janice was willing to be the hardass on this one.

"Are we going to dance around the elephant in the room or are we going to deal with why this appalling display isn't going a step further?"

Aaaaand the sweat was back. Lots of it. "Well, um, as you know, of course, we could possibly expect some, uh, pushback given our, um, controversial inspiration-"

Her hand slapped down against the notes. "You've monetized and satirized an on-going act of international terrorism. Is that the controversy you're referring to?"

Andrews shot a pleading look between Jared and Tony. Unfortunately, they'd both dedicated themselves to the important task of studying the boardroom carpet.

Cut, Print, Sell
((Jared Gull, Tony Walker, Janice Hartley, and Albert Andrews: Start))

Cigar smoke wafted through the silent air in the boardroom, the only thing disrupting the overall uncomfortable environment. Let it. He wasn't going to be the first one to speak. Jared was just glad to have witnesses alongside him to confirm the bizarre transformation that had dominated the last 15 minutes actually occurred. Together, the three of them had watched what at first appeared to be a bright, nervous young man turn into a creature whose body was mostly comprised of sweat and cheap fabric and face had been engulfed by a large, increasingly desperate and discomforting smile.

For 15 minutes they'd watched this poor kid haul his career in by the lapels, shoot it in the back of the head, dig its grave, and roll it on in, all without the slightest hint of self-awareness, and nobody wanted to be the first to tell him. He knew. He had to know that the cold, unresponsive stillness of his audience was at best born from apathy and at worst from contempt, but still he kept that damn smile. He kept waiting, just asking for the death sentence they were holding back.

Maybe he thought if he kept perfectly still, he could keep his future in a state between living and dead permanently. Schrodinger's screenwriter, just waiting for someone to pop open the box and take an unceremonious shit in it.

Maybe, on some level, they were morbidly curious about where this would lead. Would he break and admit that this was some sort of horribly thought out practical joke from the boys in creative? Would he try to run them through the flip charts, actual, physical goddamn flip charts, again? Would he dissolve first, or would his smile actually devour his head like some sort of localized black hole?

Tony did the merciful thing and finally broke the atmosphere with a cough. Appropriate, given that he was the source of the smoke. "Now, let me make sure I'm catchin' this straight," he drawled hesitantly, "Mr...?"

"Andrews, sir!" the sweat golem replied, with about eight times the necessary enthusiasm.

"Mr. Andrews. Yeah. So this..." God, that sound. Paper ruffling through pages, fucking pages of notes on a first pitch. It was downright inhumane. "Brock McClew? That's the lead's name, right?"

"Yes sir, we're not married to it, but it's testing very well with our pre-focus sub-prime surveys in the 18-35 lower middle class demo, which could be a massively untapped market for this sort of-"

Tony shut him down with a wave of his hand, "Yeeah, yeah, numbers, impressive, sure. I just wanna brass tacks the plot. The climax here revolves around McClew here...signaling a nearby U.S. Aircraft Carrier?"

Aaaand the flip charts where back. Impossibly, the grin actually seemed to grow as he flipped back towards his panoramic shots of the U.S.S. Nimitz. "Mmmhmm, this is a rough idea of what we'd hope to be working with while crafting the the U.S.S. Vigilance, pulled from active duty to search for the kidnapped students."

Vigilance. Christ. Subtlety had to be his strong suit.

It was difficult to nail down exactly when the anger started. Remembering a time when it wasn't there, coiled up and waiting to strike or alive and thrashing, was growing more and more challenging. It'd been with her for so long that it no longer felt like an intruder in her mind. It felt like a part of her.

Maybe it came when her mother first told them about Marcello. Maybe it came when she first realized that Paulo wanted nothing more than to be just like him.

Didn't matter. It'd been with her ever since, no matter how she tried to cure it.

First it was softball, channeling her rage into physical, palpable actions, burning through the caustic energy it filled her with daily by laying herself out on the field, running, tagging, throwing faster, harder, farther, until her muscles screamed for release. Each time, as she stood in the shower and let the hot water scald the dirt and exhaustion from her skin, the same thought ran through her mind: It's not enough. She couldn't sweat the anger out of her, or pack it into a ball and fling it away. It stayed inside at her, pushing at the boundaries of her self control while she curled up in bed, too sore to even bother with a comforter.

She went through more phases, seeking more intangible forms of expression, and each one seemed to pull her further downward. The bluntness, the venom, the hatred...they swelled up inside her like tumors, warping her actions until she barely resembled the happy, simple girl bouncing on the couch and rhyming with her brother.

Now, as Ian twisted the knife, her knife, Meera's knife, into her stomach, she could only focus on two things: the pain, and his face. That face, contorted by the emotions she knew so intimately, leering into hers, made her wonder: Is that what I look like?

Her mind was going fuzzy from the sheer agony as she bled out. She didn't even have the strength. She could only lie, and think, what if? What if she'd found a way to control herself better? What if she and Paulo had stayed close? What if she'd found the other girls before their killers? What if she'd never left Kathryn and Iselle? What if she'd never attacked Ian? What if she'd just...let him go? Let go of the hatred, all of it. Towards him, towards her team-mates, towards Paulo, towards Marcello, towards herself...would she still be alive? Would Paulo? Would they be happier together? Would she be a better person?

Fuck. That.

Maybe she would be. Or maybe everyone she hated fucking deserved it. It didn't really matter. The anger was a part of her, for better or worse. It was bound up in the core of who she was. She couldn't just shove it down or wish it away, not then and especially not now.

Fuck Ian for killing her.

Fuck Paulo, the team, and her father for abandoning her.

Fuck the assholes who brought her here.

Most of all, fuck regrets. Fuck anything trying to make her doubt who she was, even now. As she clasped her hands weakly around the hilt of the knife and bled into the grass already slick with rain, she craned her neck to stare up into Ian's eyes with all the bile and disgust she could manage, until she could no longer hold her head up or her lids open.

She was Alda Goddamn Abbate. She lived a short, angry, destructive life. But it was her life, her choice, and nothing could take that from her.

Not even death.



Murder Critique Theater 2K14
Garrett Wilde, please!

General Video Game Discussion Thread
Where's my g'damn Mewtwo. ;_;

A wolfish grin spread across her face, despite the the cumulative fatigue that was already drawing sweat from her brow. Ian had fucked up. He thought he had her and he fucked right up.


Her shallow at a swipe drifted across his chest has he fell, cutting too wide and too slow to do more but tear his shirt and graze his skin, but that was enough. As she fell down on top of him, she was in control. She had the momentum. The vengeance she wanted so badly was dancing in front of her, just waiting to be carved out of his stupid, smug face.

"Checkmate, asshole!"

The deep growl followed her knife downward as it plunged towards his face. She wanted Ian to remember two things as he died: Her shit-eating grin, and the curved blade that was about to dig into his eye.

Ian's shovel slid past her, scraping against her side with a dull, aching thud as he let it drop from his hands. She barely even noticed, either the shovel at her side or his fist in her stomach. All she cared about was getting him down and stabbing him until he stopped moving.

Her faithful cat fell out of her hands as she raked her fingers forward across his face, trying to power her other fist forward to bring the knife into his stomach. He was holding her back, but he wouldn't last. He couldn't stop her. What the fuck did he have to fight for?

It didn't matter. Everything he was saying, his whole cocky, self-righteous attitude, his stupid posturing, none of it made the slightest difference. He said the magic fucking words.

Tell me what you want.

Things were different this time. This wasn't going to be an accident. She wasn't losing herself in the anger. She knew, as her muscles tensed before flight, that this wasn't right. The world wouldn't be any better because this fucking dipshit was dead. It didn't fix what he'd done. It wasn't a solution. It wasn't justice.

And she did not give a single, solitary fuck. She didn't want justice, or to do what was right. If she had to boil what she wanted down to a single, primal word, it'd be simple revenge. On a more complex level, she wanted something more, though. Something that Ian Williams couldn't give her.

That wasn't going to stop her from trying to take it out of his hide.

"I want my brother back you son of a bitch!"

Before the words had even fully left her mouth, she was flying forward.