OOC CONTACT AND CHARACTER INFO
HMD | ASSHOLE OPT-OUT
POKÉMON ROSTER | CR CHART | IC CONTACT
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resplendentriOOC CONTACT AND CHARACTER INFO
HMD | ASSHOLE OPT-OUT
POKÉMON ROSTER | CR CHART | IC CONTACT
resplendentri
The place sounded like pandemonium and smelled like dog.
After ten seconds or so it died down some to just woofs, growls, and whimpers as they walked through the lines of cages. A German Shepherd pawed at the door of his. Maybe, Blake thought. Might be too big.
"They always get excited," the animal shelter guy said. He had a ring through his eyebrow and the kind of red in his eyes you could describe as 'chronic.'
"Dogs do that," Blake said, looking over at a chihuahua that yapped in a constant, squeaky rhythm you could set a metronome to. Hell no. Those were those things that couldn't figure out how to live without making noise all the time.
"Hey," said the shelter guy, who might've had something in common there, "So what got you coming by looking for one?"
"Dunno," Blake said, distracted into being honest. One that looked half terrier and half swamp rat was chasing itself in circles. Nope. "I haven't had a dog since I was a little kid, and he always liked my brother better. Always kinda wanted one of my own, but I never got around to it."
It was the weather that'd put him in a weird mood lately. Grey, never quite getting around to raining, a quiet to the air. It had him thinking too much and looking at the guys at the precinct like they were strangers. He'd been keeping to himself, going to his favorite Chinese place like it was the first time in years, digging through the paper for blurbs about how the Mars family was moving on, with a grainy picture of the shy kid holding his dad's hand and looking even younger than Blake remembered. There wasn't much about it in the news anymore, now that the talk about the book had died down. The case was a long time ago. Everybody'd moved on.
One cage was quiet as he passed by, and for a second Blake thought it was empty. When he took a second look, there was a little sandy-colored dog there. It was sitting on its haunches, ears flagged up, looking up at him with quiet optimism.
"You good?" the guy called from up ahead.
Blake looked down into her steady gaze.
Yeah.
At the counter, the guy dug through a drawer.
"Sorry," he said, holding up a collar, "Pink's all we got left."
Blake grunted, "I don't give a shit."
The dog stood on the counter and patiently let Blake fix it around her neck as the guy pulled out the paperwork.
"What do you want me to put for breed? Something mix." He gave her a glance over, like that would help. "Looks like some kind of bulldog."
"If you're gonna be honest," Blake said, scratching between her ears where the fur was short and soft, "she looks kinda like Steve Buscemi."
After ten seconds or so it died down some to just woofs, growls, and whimpers as they walked through the lines of cages. A German Shepherd pawed at the door of his. Maybe, Blake thought. Might be too big.
"They always get excited," the animal shelter guy said. He had a ring through his eyebrow and the kind of red in his eyes you could describe as 'chronic.'
"Dogs do that," Blake said, looking over at a chihuahua that yapped in a constant, squeaky rhythm you could set a metronome to. Hell no. Those were those things that couldn't figure out how to live without making noise all the time.
"Hey," said the shelter guy, who might've had something in common there, "So what got you coming by looking for one?"
"Dunno," Blake said, distracted into being honest. One that looked half terrier and half swamp rat was chasing itself in circles. Nope. "I haven't had a dog since I was a little kid, and he always liked my brother better. Always kinda wanted one of my own, but I never got around to it."
It was the weather that'd put him in a weird mood lately. Grey, never quite getting around to raining, a quiet to the air. It had him thinking too much and looking at the guys at the precinct like they were strangers. He'd been keeping to himself, going to his favorite Chinese place like it was the first time in years, digging through the paper for blurbs about how the Mars family was moving on, with a grainy picture of the shy kid holding his dad's hand and looking even younger than Blake remembered. There wasn't much about it in the news anymore, now that the talk about the book had died down. The case was a long time ago. Everybody'd moved on.
One cage was quiet as he passed by, and for a second Blake thought it was empty. When he took a second look, there was a little sandy-colored dog there. It was sitting on its haunches, ears flagged up, looking up at him with quiet optimism.
"You good?" the guy called from up ahead.
Blake looked down into her steady gaze.
Yeah.
At the counter, the guy dug through a drawer.
"Sorry," he said, holding up a collar, "Pink's all we got left."
Blake grunted, "I don't give a shit."
The dog stood on the counter and patiently let Blake fix it around her neck as the guy pulled out the paperwork.
"What do you want me to put for breed? Something mix." He gave her a glance over, like that would help. "Looks like some kind of bulldog."
"If you're gonna be honest," Blake said, scratching between her ears where the fur was short and soft, "she looks kinda like Steve Buscemi."
[There is a man in a large underground room. It is floored with tile and the walls are set with mysterious plaques and significant mosaics. It is not where he intends to be.
The man stands at a console at a wall that is covered in a sequence of strange symbols. They are echoed on the console's input. He is regarding them and musing.]
Yeah, I get it. [He pushes aside the chair in front of the console and presses the symbol-marked buttons in a creful sequence.] Backwards R, squashed spider, squiggle, that thing from the Led Zeppelin album cover, foot. [He hits the green thing that appears to be an enter key.]
[A red X flashes on the screen, and a lot BZZZZT resounds through the base.
Blake says,] Hmm.
[His hand rests on his chin as he looks up at the wall.] In that case, the answer can only be,
[He grabs the chair, hoists it above his head, and slams it against the console repeatedly.]
FUCK - YOUR - HIEROGLYPHIC - HORSE - SHIT!
The man stands at a console at a wall that is covered in a sequence of strange symbols. They are echoed on the console's input. He is regarding them and musing.]
Yeah, I get it. [He pushes aside the chair in front of the console and presses the symbol-marked buttons in a creful sequence.] Backwards R, squashed spider, squiggle, that thing from the Led Zeppelin album cover, foot. [He hits the green thing that appears to be an enter key.]
[A red X flashes on the screen, and a lot BZZZZT resounds through the base.
Blake says,] Hmm.
[His hand rests on his chin as he looks up at the wall.] In that case, the answer can only be,
[He grabs the chair, hoists it above his head, and slams it against the console repeatedly.]
FUCK - YOUR - HIEROGLYPHIC - HORSE - SHIT!
[Blake comes up on screen looking contemplative. It's an unusual look on him.]
Fifty. Five-oh. That's when you get the senior discount at Ben and Jerry's. That's when the numbers come out and say, "Hey, you. You are officially counted as old."
You know what the funny thing is? I never thought I'd get there. I would've bet you the farm that somebody with a name like Crowbar or Joey Butterfly would've gotten me first.
Butterfly like the kind of knife. Not the bug. Or maybe butterfly bandages. I don't know, I never asked the guy. Wonder if if somebody capped him yet.
It's been a while now since I've been back. Years. Lots of things can change. I might not recognize the place. Hell, plenty of people wouldn't recognize me.
[He won't let his face get too maudlin. It gives you wrinkles.]
I'd be bringing plenty back. Same as the rest of you, must be. The people you meet, the things you do... You don't spend a couple years bashing trees with faces out of the road without changing some.
Anyway.
Point is, I'm an old man now, and that means I'm wise. I've been through just about every variety of shit you can imagine, and I'm one of the handful of people around here who's ever jumped a car, fixed a leaky faucet, or cleaned out a rain gutter.
[He spreads his hands.]
So any kind of advice you need - all the shit you ever wanted to know about life but were afraid to ask - now's the time. Shoot.
Fifty. Five-oh. That's when you get the senior discount at Ben and Jerry's. That's when the numbers come out and say, "Hey, you. You are officially counted as old."
You know what the funny thing is? I never thought I'd get there. I would've bet you the farm that somebody with a name like Crowbar or Joey Butterfly would've gotten me first.
Butterfly like the kind of knife. Not the bug. Or maybe butterfly bandages. I don't know, I never asked the guy. Wonder if if somebody capped him yet.
It's been a while now since I've been back. Years. Lots of things can change. I might not recognize the place. Hell, plenty of people wouldn't recognize me.
[He won't let his face get too maudlin. It gives you wrinkles.]
I'd be bringing plenty back. Same as the rest of you, must be. The people you meet, the things you do... You don't spend a couple years bashing trees with faces out of the road without changing some.
Anyway.
Point is, I'm an old man now, and that means I'm wise. I've been through just about every variety of shit you can imagine, and I'm one of the handful of people around here who's ever jumped a car, fixed a leaky faucet, or cleaned out a rain gutter.
[He spreads his hands.]
So any kind of advice you need - all the shit you ever wanted to know about life but were afraid to ask - now's the time. Shoot.
[A Pidgey flutters to a landing on a drainpipe in Goldenrod. In its beak is a tatter of a weather-bleached campaign poster bearing the left side of Carter Blake's face.
The camera turns to glimpse the Ludicolo carrying it, then follows a man's trudging boots. The eternal background music rises and shifts into a heavy, tramping rhythm underscored by a hiss of maracas.
There's a lady walking her Houndoor. When Blake treads in a puddle that splashes the dog, it growls at him, and Blake growls right back.
That gets attention from passersby on the other side of the street. Blake whirls on them.]
I see that rancid smile
You think that I'm all ruse
Well you can walk a mile
But keep your damn hands off my shoes
[He turns to harangue a new target, oblivious to the dance routine beginning around him.]
See, my job was to beat the chaos sane
You gotta make some messes
You can't be afraid to deal some pain
There's no time for second guesses
If meting out justice is what you wanna do
You gotta put a crack in a tibia or two
[His Snubbull leaps to grab a dancer's hand and gets whirled around in a circle.]
Who're you to say I did it wrong?
Who're you to judge my sins?
You say that you care about what's right and what's fair
What you care about is who wins
You say you want a hero?
They's not what you want to see
They don't turn back, they never crack
Wake up and look at me
[Blake sweeps his arm at the gathered crowd.]
I was doing fine, I was in the clear
Didn't break down, didn't drink
Til I ended up booted over here
With nothing but time to think
[He stomps down the street faster, but their choreography keeps them all close behind him.]
Back home, I had a place to lead
I had my city and I served it
Every time I made some bastard bleed
Hell, I knew that he deserved it
I did everything I could to clean up the filth and vice
I never gave a damn that I didn't do it nice
[His voice gets rapid and louder.]
So you give it all your sweat and blood
So you believe it to the bone
So what if you were wrong when you thought that you were strong
So what if who you fought is everything you're not
So what if you can't claim you're the same as when you came
So what if you're alone?
[Blake's violent gestures cut short. The background music has never seemed so loud as when it suddenly goes silent. He leans against a storefront window, where his dim and dusty reflection lingers.]
[softly]
You say you want a hero?
They's not what you want to see
They don't turn back, they never crack
Wake up and look at me
[His head jerks up to glare at the posed crowd staring at him.]
What?!
The camera turns to glimpse the Ludicolo carrying it, then follows a man's trudging boots. The eternal background music rises and shifts into a heavy, tramping rhythm underscored by a hiss of maracas.
There's a lady walking her Houndoor. When Blake treads in a puddle that splashes the dog, it growls at him, and Blake growls right back.
That gets attention from passersby on the other side of the street. Blake whirls on them.]
I see that rancid smile
You think that I'm all ruse
Well you can walk a mile
But keep your damn hands off my shoes
[He turns to harangue a new target, oblivious to the dance routine beginning around him.]
See, my job was to beat the chaos sane
You gotta make some messes
You can't be afraid to deal some pain
There's no time for second guesses
If meting out justice is what you wanna do
You gotta put a crack in a tibia or two
[His Snubbull leaps to grab a dancer's hand and gets whirled around in a circle.]
Who're you to say I did it wrong?
Who're you to judge my sins?
You say that you care about what's right and what's fair
What you care about is who wins
You say you want a hero?
They's not what you want to see
They don't turn back, they never crack
Wake up and look at me
[Blake sweeps his arm at the gathered crowd.]
I was doing fine, I was in the clear
Didn't break down, didn't drink
Til I ended up booted over here
With nothing but time to think
[He stomps down the street faster, but their choreography keeps them all close behind him.]
Back home, I had a place to lead
I had my city and I served it
Every time I made some bastard bleed
Hell, I knew that he deserved it
I did everything I could to clean up the filth and vice
I never gave a damn that I didn't do it nice
[His voice gets rapid and louder.]
So you give it all your sweat and blood
So you believe it to the bone
So what if you were wrong when you thought that you were strong
So what if who you fought is everything you're not
So what if you can't claim you're the same as when you came
So what if you're alone?
[Blake's violent gestures cut short. The background music has never seemed so loud as when it suddenly goes silent. He leans against a storefront window, where his dim and dusty reflection lingers.]
[softly]
You say you want a hero?
They's not what you want to see
They don't turn back, they never crack
Wake up and look at me
[His head jerks up to glare at the posed crowd staring at him.]
What?!
[They say anywhere, any time, your world can fracture and turn you on your head. In this case, it's when Blake was making a sandwich.
He goes to get a beer out of the fridge, and when he turns back, the whole kitchen table full of Thanksgiving leftovers is sitting on grass. He squints in the sudden sunshine. Looks like he's out in a field somewhere. Steve, who was holding the plates, sniffs the air with a curious snub?]
Right. It's about that time of year, isn't it.
[He gives his Snubbull a thoughtful look.] You know what? I don't even give a damn anymore.
[He takes a sandwich, sits down on the grass, and cracks open the beer. He gestures a toast to the sky.]
Monster Island, do your worst.
He goes to get a beer out of the fridge, and when he turns back, the whole kitchen table full of Thanksgiving leftovers is sitting on grass. He squints in the sudden sunshine. Looks like he's out in a field somewhere. Steve, who was holding the plates, sniffs the air with a curious snub?]
Right. It's about that time of year, isn't it.
[He gives his Snubbull a thoughtful look.] You know what? I don't even give a damn anymore.
[He takes a sandwich, sits down on the grass, and cracks open the beer. He gestures a toast to the sky.]
Monster Island, do your worst.
[VIDEO]
[The face on the screen looks irritated. Also notably hairier. Maybe he just hasn't shaven in a while.]
So I go to walk around a while, I come back into town to get a shower and some socks, and I get bit by a bear with butterfly wings.
What the hell have you people been doing without me?
Steve isn't even much help. She spent three minutes beating the thing up and twenty coming up with the name Butterfring.
[He scratches his neck and winces. His nails need a trim.]
Point is, I need to know where you can go around here to get a rabies shot.
[ACTION OPTION 1]
[Not long after the broadcast, Blake has forgotten about the shot and put his attention to something more pressing: he is hungry as hell. He goes to a cafe and starts out by ordering some coffee and an omelette. At first he's annoyed by how the waiter gives his hairy arm a funny look (he's been out in the wilderness for a while here, buddy, there's not a lot of chances to clean up), it turns out it's so damn good he gets some more.
The maple syrup on the pancakes doesn't taste right. Must be cheap artificial crap. He gets honey instead.
Soon he's not bothering with ordering things one at a time. Soon he's not bothering with a fork.
He's shoveling pancakes, bacon, and sausage in his mouth with his bare claws, and he doesn't give a damn about anybody who's staring. It's goddamn delicious and he's hungry.]
[ACTION OPTION 2]
[Full. Was good. Tired now. Needs a nap.
Shoes didn't fit right. Took them off, stuck them in his bag. Toenails need a trim too. Ground under his feet feels better. Shirt fits funny, too. He scratches his shoulder, and looks. Thick, dark hair. Furry. Something not right about that. He'll deal with it tomorrow.
He lumbers down the street. Cold out here. Bright. He doesn't want a hotel. Chintzy, chatty. They smell like Lysolrock. He wants something that smells earthy. Nice and dim, quiet. Low. Someplace you can curl up.
Like there. Shadowy safe place. Smells like wood and roots. Gotta lean down and crawl under, but then it's nice. Cozy. Blake rests his head on his paws and shuts his eyes for a minute.
He is not aware that this happens to be under Roy Mustang's porch.]
[The face on the screen looks irritated. Also notably hairier. Maybe he just hasn't shaven in a while.]
So I go to walk around a while, I come back into town to get a shower and some socks, and I get bit by a bear with butterfly wings.
What the hell have you people been doing without me?
Steve isn't even much help. She spent three minutes beating the thing up and twenty coming up with the name Butterfring.
[He scratches his neck and winces. His nails need a trim.]
Point is, I need to know where you can go around here to get a rabies shot.
[ACTION OPTION 1]
[Not long after the broadcast, Blake has forgotten about the shot and put his attention to something more pressing: he is hungry as hell. He goes to a cafe and starts out by ordering some coffee and an omelette. At first he's annoyed by how the waiter gives his hairy arm a funny look (he's been out in the wilderness for a while here, buddy, there's not a lot of chances to clean up), it turns out it's so damn good he gets some more.
The maple syrup on the pancakes doesn't taste right. Must be cheap artificial crap. He gets honey instead.
Soon he's not bothering with ordering things one at a time. Soon he's not bothering with a fork.
He's shoveling pancakes, bacon, and sausage in his mouth with his bare claws, and he doesn't give a damn about anybody who's staring. It's goddamn delicious and he's hungry.]
[ACTION OPTION 2]
[Full. Was good. Tired now. Needs a nap.
Shoes didn't fit right. Took them off, stuck them in his bag. Toenails need a trim too. Ground under his feet feels better. Shirt fits funny, too. He scratches his shoulder, and looks. Thick, dark hair. Furry. Something not right about that. He'll deal with it tomorrow.
He lumbers down the street. Cold out here. Bright. He doesn't want a hotel. Chintzy, chatty. They smell like Lysolrock. He wants something that smells earthy. Nice and dim, quiet. Low. Someplace you can curl up.
Like there. Shadowy safe place. Smells like wood and roots. Gotta lean down and crawl under, but then it's nice. Cozy. Blake rests his head on his paws and shuts his eyes for a minute.
He is not aware that this happens to be under Roy Mustang's porch.]
Hey.
[There's not much preamble to this broadcast. Not a lot of middleamble, either. Blake looks tired, but sober.]
You've probably figured this out already, but might as well make it official. That whole President thing, it's over. Olly olly oxen free.
[Sky is visible in the background. The screen shifts with his steps.]
I'm gonna go think for a while.
[The feed cuts out.]
[There's not much preamble to this broadcast. Not a lot of middleamble, either. Blake looks tired, but sober.]
You've probably figured this out already, but might as well make it official. That whole President thing, it's over. Olly olly oxen free.
[Sky is visible in the background. The screen shifts with his steps.]
I'm gonna go think for a while.
[The feed cuts out.]
[VIDEO]
[The flag behind Blake is scorched and askew from where one of his firehorses brushed too close to it. His eyes are dark-rimmed, and have a hint of a wild sheen. No fancy-ass combed hair this time. His beard is dark and thick.]
I tried playing nice.
[There's a bat-like squeak from somewhere offscreen. Yusuke's going away present. He doesn't seem to hear it.]
More people are vanishing off the face of the earth. The wolfkid disappeared the old-fashioned way. No trace of any of them.
[Suddenly, he slams his fist on his desk.]
That's enough!
[He jabs his finger at the screen.]
As of now, I am declaring martial law. You hear me?! Nobody leaves without my permission!
[A violent gesture knocks over a glass in front of him.]
We're on lockdown!
[The video cuts out.]
[ACTION]
[Blake is in his headquarters, prowling back and forth. He can't seem to stay still, and his Pokemon have caught his restlessness. His arcanine is sniffing the air, Steve is pacing and standing on her toes to peer out the windows, his Kingler is scuttling around the old bowling lanes with its legs clack-clacking on the wood floor. There a squeaking and rustle of wings every once in a while as the last damn Zubat out of reach flaps over to a new corner. The only one that seems at rest is a Beautifly perched on top of a bank of lockers.
Blake's tread is hard and heavy. Every once in a while he hisses under his breath,] Bastards.
[[OOC: THE TIME IS NOW. If anybody's looking tohave fun punching an idiot in the head make history by overthrowing Blake's delusion government, now's the opportunity.]]
[The flag behind Blake is scorched and askew from where one of his firehorses brushed too close to it. His eyes are dark-rimmed, and have a hint of a wild sheen. No fancy-ass combed hair this time. His beard is dark and thick.]
I tried playing nice.
[There's a bat-like squeak from somewhere offscreen. Yusuke's going away present. He doesn't seem to hear it.]
More people are vanishing off the face of the earth. The wolfkid disappeared the old-fashioned way. No trace of any of them.
[Suddenly, he slams his fist on his desk.]
That's enough!
[He jabs his finger at the screen.]
As of now, I am declaring martial law. You hear me?! Nobody leaves without my permission!
[A violent gesture knocks over a glass in front of him.]
We're on lockdown!
[The video cuts out.]
[ACTION]
[Blake is in his headquarters, prowling back and forth. He can't seem to stay still, and his Pokemon have caught his restlessness. His arcanine is sniffing the air, Steve is pacing and standing on her toes to peer out the windows, his Kingler is scuttling around the old bowling lanes with its legs clack-clacking on the wood floor. There a squeaking and rustle of wings every once in a while as the last damn Zubat out of reach flaps over to a new corner. The only one that seems at rest is a Beautifly perched on top of a bank of lockers.
Blake's tread is hard and heavy. Every once in a while he hisses under his breath,] Bastards.
[[OOC: THE TIME IS NOW. If anybody's looking to
[Blake is at his desk in his headquarters, with the homemade American flag up on the wall behind him and a Snubbull in sunglasses standing cross-armed to the side. You know this is official, because he has gone to the trouble of combing his hair.
He's not in a tie, though. Fuck ties.]
Ladies, gentlemen, and giant bugs, listen up, because we got us a legal system.
That lawyer with the spiky head drew us up a code. What we have there is some real rules for a society. A court system, none of this crap where everybody gets a couple days picking up trash. I'm sending it out to you now.
[Everyone receiving the broadcast will now receive a copy of what, because Blake couldn't figure out how to change the file name, remains stillbetterthanmycollegethesis.docx]
It's a place to start. Now, I got a few things to add straight off.
[Blake clears his throat and holds up a sheet of paper.]
As of today, the law of the land includes the following:
And, last but not least,
[He is interrupted by an echoing, chittering primate yawp that seems to come from the grated vent above the part of the wall covered by the flag. His confident expression becomes a ferocious scowl.]
Somebody get this goddamn monkey out of the walls!
[Shortly afterwards, this is followed by an IMPORTANT UPATE.]
He's not in a tie, though. Fuck ties.]
Ladies, gentlemen, and giant bugs, listen up, because we got us a legal system.
That lawyer with the spiky head drew us up a code. What we have there is some real rules for a society. A court system, none of this crap where everybody gets a couple days picking up trash. I'm sending it out to you now.
[Everyone receiving the broadcast will now receive a copy of what, because Blake couldn't figure out how to change the file name, remains stillbetterthanmycollegethesis.docx]
It's a place to start. Now, I got a few things to add straight off.
[Blake clears his throat and holds up a sheet of paper.]
As of today, the law of the land includes the following:
- No more rhinoceros street races at two in the god damn morning.
- Chicken a la King is now to be known as Chicken a la Cosell, on the grounds that he is the superior announcer.
- You are legally required to inform somebody that a glass is full of cow-monster milk before letting them drink it.
- Anybody who uses the word "celeb," "delish," "guesstimate," or "bromance" shall receive a swift kick in the ass.
- Same goes for anybody who who talks about their low-carb diet or their goddamn Crossfit routine.
- If your electric rat knocks out the cable, it'd better be able to fix it.
- Movies that you have to read are now officially classified as books.
- All males over the age of 12 must know how to change a tire.
- Anybody who walks around staring at their cell phone is fair game to get tripped on the legal basis that they are asking for it.
- If you are making a work of fiction, you are prohibited from putting in a dog just so you can kill it to try make everybody sad.
And, last but not least,
[He is interrupted by an echoing, chittering primate yawp that seems to come from the grated vent above the part of the wall covered by the flag. His confident expression becomes a ferocious scowl.]
Somebody get this goddamn monkey out of the walls!
[Shortly afterwards, this is followed by an IMPORTANT UPATE.]
[Listen up. It's time for a message from the President.
You could call it the look of the cat who ate the canary, or you could call it plain smug. That's what's on Blake's face as he reclines behind a big, fancy desk in his headquarters.
(If the big, fancy desk happened to be bought cheap because it has a short leg currently propped up by the local yellow pages, who's to know?)]
So maybe you all noticed that idiot in the welding mask got his ass kicked right out of his little island tax shelter. You know whose boot did the kicking?
That's right. Yours truly.
[He spreads his arms and leans his chair back with a creak.] I'd call that all the inauguration I need.
[There's a big old American flag hanging on the wall behind him. Anybody looking close might notice that it's handmade, with slightly uneven stripes and what may be a couple missing stars. When's the last time anybody gave a fuck about Nebraska, anyway?]
Now, it just so happens I'm in a real good mood. So, if you got grievances, ideas, petitions, or you just want to say thank you, now's the time to bring it up. You got a chance to fuckin' have a say in the government.
[The flag is slightly crooked. A little Snubbull climbs up on the desk to straighten it out.]
My door's open.
[Maybe that's how the ice cream monster thing got in.]
You could call it the look of the cat who ate the canary, or you could call it plain smug. That's what's on Blake's face as he reclines behind a big, fancy desk in his headquarters.
(If the big, fancy desk happened to be bought cheap because it has a short leg currently propped up by the local yellow pages, who's to know?)]
So maybe you all noticed that idiot in the welding mask got his ass kicked right out of his little island tax shelter. You know whose boot did the kicking?
That's right. Yours truly.
[He spreads his arms and leans his chair back with a creak.] I'd call that all the inauguration I need.
[There's a big old American flag hanging on the wall behind him. Anybody looking close might notice that it's handmade, with slightly uneven stripes and what may be a couple missing stars. When's the last time anybody gave a fuck about Nebraska, anyway?]
Now, it just so happens I'm in a real good mood. So, if you got grievances, ideas, petitions, or you just want to say thank you, now's the time to bring it up. You got a chance to fuckin' have a say in the government.
[The flag is slightly crooked. A little Snubbull climbs up on the desk to straighten it out.]
My door's open.
[Maybe that's how the ice cream monster thing got in.]
[Though Blake is standing in front of a blank wall, the height of the roof and his distance from the camera hints that he's in a large building. He clears his throat and begins his address.]
Listen up, all of you. I'll make this quick.
[He clasps his hands behind his back and starts moving. He can never stay still while giving a speech like this.]
United States of Monster Island, it is time to get your shit together.
[As he walks, the Croagunk-held Gear revolves to track him, revealing that the wall has a large patch in a different color, and that something further back and to his right appears to be bowling lanes. A few feathers are scattered on the floor.]
First off, as you can see here, we got us a headquarters here in Goldenrod now. You got a problem, you come here.
The second thing we have is a problem.
See, there's an asshole out there trying to commit acts of terrorism and take shit over, and I for one am not planning on letting him.
[He shoots a hard look at the camera. A feather drifts against his foot.]
If you're over eighteen, consider yourself drafted. Man or woman, it doesn't matter when it's a magic animal doing the work. Stand ready to get called up.
[He notices something stuck to him. He scowls, grabs the feather off his pant leg, and brandishes it at the camera.]
In the meantime, somebody clean up these goddamn things.
( Private to people he considers either on board or trustworthy enough that they might as well be: Tobias, Ash, Ringabel, Phoenix, Riku, Greed, Jinnai, Kayneth, Cynthia, Schuldig, Heather, and Red )
Listen up, all of you. I'll make this quick.
[He clasps his hands behind his back and starts moving. He can never stay still while giving a speech like this.]
United States of Monster Island, it is time to get your shit together.
[As he walks, the Croagunk-held Gear revolves to track him, revealing that the wall has a large patch in a different color, and that something further back and to his right appears to be bowling lanes. A few feathers are scattered on the floor.]
First off, as you can see here, we got us a headquarters here in Goldenrod now. You got a problem, you come here.
The second thing we have is a problem.
See, there's an asshole out there trying to commit acts of terrorism and take shit over, and I for one am not planning on letting him.
[He shoots a hard look at the camera. A feather drifts against his foot.]
If you're over eighteen, consider yourself drafted. Man or woman, it doesn't matter when it's a magic animal doing the work. Stand ready to get called up.
[He notices something stuck to him. He scowls, grabs the feather off his pant leg, and brandishes it at the camera.]
In the meantime, somebody clean up these goddamn things.
( Private to people he considers either on board or trustworthy enough that they might as well be: Tobias, Ash, Ringabel, Phoenix, Riku, Greed, Jinnai, Kayneth, Cynthia, Schuldig, Heather, and Red )
[In a square in the center of Goldenrod City, a small crowd has gathered. A show is about to start.
There's a crude stage that's been freshly hammered together. Near the back, a little Snubbull is tapping in the last few nails. The platform wobbles but holds as a man climbs up it, then takes a place at a podium in the center. He's wearing a white button-up shirt and, in concession to his ambitions, a tie. He looks toward the camera.] Hey, Newt. You got that thing running?
[The camera's view nods up and down.]
All right.
[He holds his arms up for silence. Then, when no one quite pays attention, he barks,] Hey! All of you! Shut up!
( Stump speech. )
I'm not asking you. I'm telling you.
From now on, I'm the head honcho around here.
[He jabs his finger at the camera.]
Stand with me or get out of my way.
There's a crude stage that's been freshly hammered together. Near the back, a little Snubbull is tapping in the last few nails. The platform wobbles but holds as a man climbs up it, then takes a place at a podium in the center. He's wearing a white button-up shirt and, in concession to his ambitions, a tie. He looks toward the camera.] Hey, Newt. You got that thing running?
[The camera's view nods up and down.]
All right.
[He holds his arms up for silence. Then, when no one quite pays attention, he barks,] Hey! All of you! Shut up!
( Stump speech. )
I'm not asking you. I'm telling you.
From now on, I'm the head honcho around here.
[He jabs his finger at the camera.]
Stand with me or get out of my way.
[After getting a faceful of bees, sharks, and the ugliest snowflakes in creation in Celadon, Blake has moved on. He could take furious monsters from the sky, but if he had to deal with one more yuppie moron asking about his favorite boutique, he was going to clock somebody. Vermilion just has survival weirdos and muscleheads. He can live with those.
Anyway, the feed comes up on him in a library, because it was the only way to shut his lobster up.
He's sitting on a plush chair, looking sullen. Behind him, there's a table covered with books, topped by a Clauncher perusing them avidly. There's also a pile on the chair to one side of Blake. To the other side, there's his Snubbull, absorbed in some naval historical fiction.]
You know what they tell you about these little animals? They tell you what to feed them. They tell you about all the ways to fight with them.
They don't tell you that sometimes your lobster will tug on your pantleg and make whimpery noises until you take it to a damn library.
[Said lobster scuttles down from the table and clacks over, with a book on his back that he steadies with his claw. He climbs up on the chair besides Blake and deposits it on top of the pile. He looks at the untouched stack. He looks at Blake's empty hands. The stare in his eye is quiet disappointment.]
What?
[The Clauncher says nothing.
Blake sighs.] All right, all right. I'll take a look.
[He picks up a book from the pile, one that looks short, and opens it.] "Maman died today." Christ, that's cheerful. Who wants to read that kind of depressing shit?
[He tosses it aside and tries another.] "A green and yellow Chatot, which hung in a cage outside the door..." Nope, don't care about anybody's bird.
[He grabs another and opens it in the middle.] "I have heard the mermaids singing..." Yeah, sure you have buddy, I don't give a shit.
[One more, and he jabs a finger at a line at random.] "A drowsy numbness pains my sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, or emptied some dull opiate" - the hell is this? Who wants to read about some moody junkie? They gotta have something where they talk like goddamn normal people.
[The Clauncher's antennae twitch and he perks up, getting an idea. He scuttles off and returns with a slim volume, which he sets on Blake's knee and opens to a certain page. He points at a line with his claw.
Blake picks it up for a closer look, then breaks into a smile.] Hey, that's not bad. [He looks to the screen.] Listen to this.
[He clears his throat and holds the book up dramatically. He recites,] "The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers."
[He sets it down and gestures at the screen.] Still, I got a question.
[He spreads his hands.] What good has a book ever done anybody?
Anyway, the feed comes up on him in a library, because it was the only way to shut his lobster up.
He's sitting on a plush chair, looking sullen. Behind him, there's a table covered with books, topped by a Clauncher perusing them avidly. There's also a pile on the chair to one side of Blake. To the other side, there's his Snubbull, absorbed in some naval historical fiction.]
You know what they tell you about these little animals? They tell you what to feed them. They tell you about all the ways to fight with them.
They don't tell you that sometimes your lobster will tug on your pantleg and make whimpery noises until you take it to a damn library.
[Said lobster scuttles down from the table and clacks over, with a book on his back that he steadies with his claw. He climbs up on the chair besides Blake and deposits it on top of the pile. He looks at the untouched stack. He looks at Blake's empty hands. The stare in his eye is quiet disappointment.]
What?
[The Clauncher says nothing.
Blake sighs.] All right, all right. I'll take a look.
[He picks up a book from the pile, one that looks short, and opens it.] "Maman died today." Christ, that's cheerful. Who wants to read that kind of depressing shit?
[He tosses it aside and tries another.] "A green and yellow Chatot, which hung in a cage outside the door..." Nope, don't care about anybody's bird.
[He grabs another and opens it in the middle.] "I have heard the mermaids singing..." Yeah, sure you have buddy, I don't give a shit.
[One more, and he jabs a finger at a line at random.] "A drowsy numbness pains my sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, or emptied some dull opiate" - the hell is this? Who wants to read about some moody junkie? They gotta have something where they talk like goddamn normal people.
[The Clauncher's antennae twitch and he perks up, getting an idea. He scuttles off and returns with a slim volume, which he sets on Blake's knee and opens to a certain page. He points at a line with his claw.
Blake picks it up for a closer look, then breaks into a smile.] Hey, that's not bad. [He looks to the screen.] Listen to this.
[He clears his throat and holds the book up dramatically. He recites,] "The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers."
[He sets it down and gestures at the screen.] Still, I got a question.
[He spreads his hands.] What good has a book ever done anybody?
[The camera is pointed at the sky. It's clear for now, though clouds aren't far distant. There's the sound of waves, underlain by clicks and scraping noises very close to the speakers. The screen shifts until it is angled properly to show the one positioning it - a Clauncher. With careful movements of his claws, he makes sure that the Gear is balanced against the rocks behind it. Once he's satisfied, he scuttles backward daintily until he has room to work.
In the background, Blake is visible, wearing swim trunks and reclining on a distant beach chair and soaking in the last of the summer. Now and then an Emolga hops up and drops a Frisbee onto his bare chest, and he tosses it off across the beach again.
The Clauncher has found an expanse of clear sand and a period of time in which he is given no heed, and intends to make the most of both. With a wriggle of his tail to steady himself, he rises up and lifts his claw. A slender stream of water arcs to the ground, forming the shape of graceful cursive letters writ in dampened sand.]
SOS, please hear and heed
I've come from 'neath the sea
Observe misfortune's bitter grasp
See what's befallen me.
I came with brethren plentiful
I know not whence or why
Only that by some mischance
I caught a native's eye.
I am a humble creature; still,
I've pride and dignity
I'll tell you now, I wasn't hatched
For a brute's menagerie.
Won't anyone come lend a hand
Or wing, or pseudopod?
I'll find my way as best I can-
But spirit me from this clod!
In the background, Blake is visible, wearing swim trunks and reclining on a distant beach chair and soaking in the last of the summer. Now and then an Emolga hops up and drops a Frisbee onto his bare chest, and he tosses it off across the beach again.
The Clauncher has found an expanse of clear sand and a period of time in which he is given no heed, and intends to make the most of both. With a wriggle of his tail to steady himself, he rises up and lifts his claw. A slender stream of water arcs to the ground, forming the shape of graceful cursive letters writ in dampened sand.]
I've come from 'neath the sea
Observe misfortune's bitter grasp
See what's befallen me.
I came with brethren plentiful
I know not whence or why
Only that by some mischance
I caught a native's eye.
I am a humble creature; still,
I've pride and dignity
I'll tell you now, I wasn't hatched
For a brute's menagerie.
Won't anyone come lend a hand
Or wing, or pseudopod?
I'll find my way as best I can-
But spirit me from this clod!
Hey. It's too hot to do anything today, so you might as well talk.
What's the worst thing anybody ever did to you?
[That comes first. It's a minute or so before the rest follows.]
What would the dirtbag have to do to make you forgive them?
What's the worst thing anybody ever did to you?
[That comes first. It's a minute or so before the rest follows.]
What would the dirtbag have to do to make you forgive them?
[ACTION]
[In a low-rent corner of Mahogany, there's a real gym. No mazes, no boss trying to fight you in exchange for something they call a badge, no lackeys, just weight machines and a floor covered with rubber mats, the way it should be. Open twenty-four hours, and this late there's no human in this room but Blake. He's in a sweatsuit, gray in contrast to the brown of the Hitmonlee holding pads for him in its upraised paws. The only sound is his harsh breaths and the thump of his fists on the canvas. His shoulders are hunched like a boxer's. His eyes look straight ahead. Judging from the sweat darkening the back of his shirt, he's been here a while.
On the other side of the room, a Snubbull is sitting on the floor, looking at a Gear that's resting on the mats. A Musharna floats beside her. Fifteen minutes of frustration proved that claws are no good for texting with, but she wants to talk to someone. She really wants to.
She snubs softly, so as not to make her trainer angry. The Musharna's eyes show no reaction, but the buttons on the Gear depress. The text that Steve watches appear seems to be accurate, more or less. The transcription might come strange through the dreaming creature. It's close enough for what she needs.]
[TEXT]
Hello lo low hello
Please talk to me.
I want to talk.
I will tell you my favorite story.
He told it to me when I couldn't sleep. His eyes were closed for some of it but I shook his knee and got to hear the end. Without the end it isn't a story.
Once
upon a time there was a girl. She was poor and alone because her parents were dead, and child services didn't exist then, so she had to go to live with her wicked stepmother and do work for her. Hard work, the kind that nearly killed her, but in time she got used to it.
Then one day she heard the prince was giving a big ball. She asked to go, but her stepmother wouldn't let her. So she tried to run off and get a ride to the castle from a knight, but her wicked stepmother had tailled her, and she found her and dragged her off the horse. While she was going, the wicked stepmother threw the knight a gold coin. He held onto it, and he kept looking at it all the time. He kept thinking about the girl.
He wanted to help her, but he couldn't.
The knight went to the ball, and he was going to kill the prince, but there were too many guards around watching him, so he ran away.
Then the knight went to find the girl and save her. The wicked stepmother grazed him in the neck with an evil spell, but he killed her and all the other guys too, even though he got hurt bad. At first the girl was scared, but then she was free and she was okay. She got to go back home to her real parents. The knight was a hero. All the papers said so.
And everyone lived happily ever after.
..........
..........
..........
Tell me your favorite story.
Voice or video if you can.
The words alone are lonely.
Tell me please.
[In a low-rent corner of Mahogany, there's a real gym. No mazes, no boss trying to fight you in exchange for something they call a badge, no lackeys, just weight machines and a floor covered with rubber mats, the way it should be. Open twenty-four hours, and this late there's no human in this room but Blake. He's in a sweatsuit, gray in contrast to the brown of the Hitmonlee holding pads for him in its upraised paws. The only sound is his harsh breaths and the thump of his fists on the canvas. His shoulders are hunched like a boxer's. His eyes look straight ahead. Judging from the sweat darkening the back of his shirt, he's been here a while.
On the other side of the room, a Snubbull is sitting on the floor, looking at a Gear that's resting on the mats. A Musharna floats beside her. Fifteen minutes of frustration proved that claws are no good for texting with, but she wants to talk to someone. She really wants to.
She snubs softly, so as not to make her trainer angry. The Musharna's eyes show no reaction, but the buttons on the Gear depress. The text that Steve watches appear seems to be accurate, more or less. The transcription might come strange through the dreaming creature. It's close enough for what she needs.]
[TEXT]
Hello lo low hello
Please talk to me.
I want to talk.
I will tell you my favorite story.
He told it to me when I couldn't sleep. His eyes were closed for some of it but I shook his knee and got to hear the end. Without the end it isn't a story.
Once
upon a time there was a girl. She was poor and alone because her parents were dead, and child services didn't exist then, so she had to go to live with her wicked stepmother and do work for her. Hard work, the kind that nearly killed her, but in time she got used to it.
Then one day she heard the prince was giving a big ball. She asked to go, but her stepmother wouldn't let her. So she tried to run off and get a ride to the castle from a knight, but her wicked stepmother had tailled her, and she found her and dragged her off the horse. While she was going, the wicked stepmother threw the knight a gold coin. He held onto it, and he kept looking at it all the time. He kept thinking about the girl.
He wanted to help her, but he couldn't.
The knight went to the ball, and he was going to kill the prince, but there were too many guards around watching him, so he ran away.
Then the knight went to find the girl and save her. The wicked stepmother grazed him in the neck with an evil spell, but he killed her and all the other guys too, even though he got hurt bad. At first the girl was scared, but then she was free and she was okay. She got to go back home to her real parents. The knight was a hero. All the papers said so.
And everyone lived happily ever after.
..........
..........
..........
Tell me your favorite story.
Voice or video if you can.
The words alone are lonely.
Tell me please.
[Blake's been feeling a foreboding for days. An itch in the back of his head. Somthing making his floral piggybank thing lay on its side and stare into space a lot, somehow even creepier than usual. Something that had him sleeping bad enough to spend some nights sitting in the dark watching Throh's Company reruns. Eventually, he thinks he's figured out why.
This fucking time of year again. The time when everything goes from the usual crazy to fucking happy horseshit hell.
He'd planned to spend the time like anybody reasonable would - keeping the shades drawn and hunching over his gun.
One step works all right- he throws a drawer open and there it is. His trusty old SIG Sauer, heavy and real in his grip. That's the one good thing about this, finally having his weapon back in his hand and feeling right again.
Then he flings the curtains shut and goes to sit down in an armchair and wait it out.
A flash of something jabs him in the eye. He blinks and shakes his head hard. Fuck, there it is again. He growls Fuck! and surges to his feet. Some goddamn thing is shining through the crack in the curtain, probably some idiot's metal monster or giant robot--
The first thing he notices when he throws the curtains open is the giant shiny rock jutting out of the ground.
The second is that this is not the same city he closed them on.
Blake groans from the bottom of his heart.] Fucking hell.
This fucking time of year again. The time when everything goes from the usual crazy to fucking happy horseshit hell.
He'd planned to spend the time like anybody reasonable would - keeping the shades drawn and hunching over his gun.
One step works all right- he throws a drawer open and there it is. His trusty old SIG Sauer, heavy and real in his grip. That's the one good thing about this, finally having his weapon back in his hand and feeling right again.
Then he flings the curtains shut and goes to sit down in an armchair and wait it out.
A flash of something jabs him in the eye. He blinks and shakes his head hard. Fuck, there it is again. He growls Fuck! and surges to his feet. Some goddamn thing is shining through the crack in the curtain, probably some idiot's metal monster or giant robot--
The first thing he notices when he throws the curtains open is the giant shiny rock jutting out of the ground.
The second is that this is not the same city he closed them on.
Blake groans from the bottom of his heart.] Fucking hell.
Almost April, now.
[The sun's out, but there's still some chill lingering in the breeze. Blake is walking down one of the picturesque streets of shops in Olivine with his Snubbull perched on his shoulder, where she gnaws on something held in her paw. The Gear keeps pace a few steps in front of him and floats gently up and down. His Jumpluff has gotten pretty good at keeping steady.]
You know what that means? That makes it more than a year I've been on Crazy Bullshit Island.
[He gestures toward the screen with the bag in his hand.]
I could mope. I could try to figure out the chances of ever getting back to the real world. I could go sit an the place with the turtle always sleeping on the counter and make the bartender earn his tips by listening to me go on about how things are supposed to be. But you know what? Fuck it. It's a nice day, I've had over twelve months where I haven't had to bag and tag a severed foot out of anybody's freezer, and I've got a bag of factory irregular fortune cookies.
[He shrugs.] They were on sale.
[He opens the bag, digs one out, and bites off a piece.] Huh. Doesn't taste any different from usual. Wonder why they were marked down.
[As he crunches, he pulls the paper from inside. He reads it out.] "This year, most part, face will go out at dance hall."
Oh. [He pops the other half of the cookie in his mouth and talks through crumbs.] That's why.
Hey, Steve, what's yours say? [The little dog on his shoulder hands over her fortune.] "Okay. Probably is being victorious." Hey, that's good luck. It even almost makes sense. [Steve likes the sound of that one, and takes it to hold onto.]
[Blake holds the bag of fortune cookies up toward the camera.] Hey, you out there. You want to get the secrets of your future through some personalized gibberish, speak up.
[[Answer with a number from 7 to 851, and get your own garbled fortune! This is generated by me going to the designated page in this giant manga magazine, grabbing a line at random, and translating it terribly. Anybody in the Olivine area can come get some in person.]]
[The sun's out, but there's still some chill lingering in the breeze. Blake is walking down one of the picturesque streets of shops in Olivine with his Snubbull perched on his shoulder, where she gnaws on something held in her paw. The Gear keeps pace a few steps in front of him and floats gently up and down. His Jumpluff has gotten pretty good at keeping steady.]
You know what that means? That makes it more than a year I've been on Crazy Bullshit Island.
[He gestures toward the screen with the bag in his hand.]
I could mope. I could try to figure out the chances of ever getting back to the real world. I could go sit an the place with the turtle always sleeping on the counter and make the bartender earn his tips by listening to me go on about how things are supposed to be. But you know what? Fuck it. It's a nice day, I've had over twelve months where I haven't had to bag and tag a severed foot out of anybody's freezer, and I've got a bag of factory irregular fortune cookies.
[He shrugs.] They were on sale.
[He opens the bag, digs one out, and bites off a piece.] Huh. Doesn't taste any different from usual. Wonder why they were marked down.
[As he crunches, he pulls the paper from inside. He reads it out.] "This year, most part, face will go out at dance hall."
Oh. [He pops the other half of the cookie in his mouth and talks through crumbs.] That's why.
Hey, Steve, what's yours say? [The little dog on his shoulder hands over her fortune.] "Okay. Probably is being victorious." Hey, that's good luck. It even almost makes sense. [Steve likes the sound of that one, and takes it to hold onto.]
[Blake holds the bag of fortune cookies up toward the camera.] Hey, you out there. You want to get the secrets of your future through some personalized gibberish, speak up.
[[Answer with a number from 7 to 851, and get your own garbled fortune! This is generated by me going to the designated page in this giant manga magazine, grabbing a line at random, and translating it terribly. Anybody in the Olivine area can come get some in person.]]
Well boys and girls, we got us some results. Lemme see here.
[Blake clears his throat with suitable drama as his Snubbull solemnly hands him an envelope.]
Thanks Steve. Third place and one thousand of the weird-ass local money goes to-
[Rip. Unfold]
Number 13, Ryner Lute, with some kind of fairy tale thing about why you should never let a mime run the government.
Second place, with a prize of five thousand rubles or whatever the fuck, is-
[Rip rip]
Number 2, the one about a little girl getting turned into a mime and somehow nobody gets arrested! It's a good day for mimes, and you bet your ass that's never been said by anybody before. That one was by- [Blake squints at the name] The Joker? Does Batman know you're running around here?
All right, drumroll!
[His Solrock rolls around in a circle to approximate it. pattapattapattapatta-- -tear!]
First prize, 7500 pesos and a date with a weirdo, now belongs to Number 7, the long thing about every single damn prompt cause there's always that kid! Nuhnaymi Chee-ack-eye, step right up!
Now, the special categories. Each of these gets their own chance to go bowling with a lunatic and talk about your pet ghosts.
Most Likely to be True goes to Number 12, some household cleaning tips by Kenneth Elm...Alm...Amelie-- Archibald? Hey, Ken, why didn't you ever tell me your name was Archie?
Now, last but not least yadda yadda yadda, we got Funniest. That is Number 8 and its artistic interpretations, by a landslide. Heather Mason, come on down. Hope you don't want the original of that one part back. I, uh, lost it. [In a fire.]
That's it for whatever the hell this was. [Blake leans back with a satisfied air.] Everybody who got cash, it'll get wired straight to your account. Heather, Archie, and Nuhnaymi, give the paper a ring and they'll set up your dates. Congratulations, and all that crap. I'm gonna go get a beer and do something that isn't reading.
[Steve blows on a noisemaker. It goes toot.]
[[OOC: The writing contest is over! The way voting worked is each vote for first got a story 3 points, a vote for second counted as 2, and a vote for third counted as 1. Big thank you to everyone who voted, everyone who participated, and to the mods for a) letting me do this, b) helping me set it up, and c) going above and beyond the call of duty in providing prizes.
lullabytes, enjoymyatelier, and foolishwren, please come down to this thread to pick your NPCs!]]
[Blake clears his throat with suitable drama as his Snubbull solemnly hands him an envelope.]
Thanks Steve. Third place and one thousand of the weird-ass local money goes to-
[Rip. Unfold]
Number 13, Ryner Lute, with some kind of fairy tale thing about why you should never let a mime run the government.
Second place, with a prize of five thousand rubles or whatever the fuck, is-
[Rip rip]
Number 2, the one about a little girl getting turned into a mime and somehow nobody gets arrested! It's a good day for mimes, and you bet your ass that's never been said by anybody before. That one was by- [Blake squints at the name] The Joker? Does Batman know you're running around here?
All right, drumroll!
[His Solrock rolls around in a circle to approximate it. pattapattapattapatta-- -tear!]
First prize, 7500 pesos and a date with a weirdo, now belongs to Number 7, the long thing about every single damn prompt cause there's always that kid! Nuhnaymi Chee-ack-eye, step right up!
Now, the special categories. Each of these gets their own chance to go bowling with a lunatic and talk about your pet ghosts.
Most Likely to be True goes to Number 12, some household cleaning tips by Kenneth Elm...Alm...Amelie-- Archibald? Hey, Ken, why didn't you ever tell me your name was Archie?
Now, last but not least yadda yadda yadda, we got Funniest. That is Number 8 and its artistic interpretations, by a landslide. Heather Mason, come on down. Hope you don't want the original of that one part back. I, uh, lost it. [In a fire.]
That's it for whatever the hell this was. [Blake leans back with a satisfied air.] Everybody who got cash, it'll get wired straight to your account. Heather, Archie, and Nuhnaymi, give the paper a ring and they'll set up your dates. Congratulations, and all that crap. I'm gonna go get a beer and do something that isn't reading.
[Steve blows on a noisemaker. It goes toot.]
[[OOC: The writing contest is over! The way voting worked is each vote for first got a story 3 points, a vote for second counted as 2, and a vote for third counted as 1. Big thank you to everyone who voted, everyone who participated, and to the mods for a) letting me do this, b) helping me set it up, and c) going above and beyond the call of duty in providing prizes.
lullabytes, enjoymyatelier, and foolishwren, please come down to this thread to pick your NPCs!]]
