Post by Deleted on Dec 28, 2013 21:59:55 GMT -8
Funniest post takes the cake.
Voting will close on January 31st at 23:59 EST.
Entry 1
Entry 2
The RDMC Janitor's Closet
Entry 3
Voting will close on January 31st at 23:59 EST.
Entry 1
It was a lovely day not an hour ago, and Felix was on his way to work at Bagaj the Hutt's Trading House, although the local's call it Bag's House.
Felix hated it and was quite shoked when it blew up from one of the first blasts in the attack.
The shockwave sent him flying onto his back and debris fell around him. It took only a second for him to register what had just happened and he jumped up, pointed to the remains of his former workplace and howled in laughter.
'HA! I QUIT!'
Weather through mental shock to his system or the adrenaline rush we will never know as Felix then stripped out of his work clothes and danced in the street naked as the surrounding area got razed to the ground. He even bent to the ground to kiss the earth under his feet as a quite massive wall section fell onto him.
In years to come there would be local stories of the 'Humble Defier'. A naked man who shook his fist to the sky, showing the attackers that the Public of Prak's Will would not be crushed. A Hero to some, and a dammed madman to others..
War does indeed do strange things to people...
Felix hated it and was quite shoked when it blew up from one of the first blasts in the attack.
The shockwave sent him flying onto his back and debris fell around him. It took only a second for him to register what had just happened and he jumped up, pointed to the remains of his former workplace and howled in laughter.
'HA! I QUIT!'
Weather through mental shock to his system or the adrenaline rush we will never know as Felix then stripped out of his work clothes and danced in the street naked as the surrounding area got razed to the ground. He even bent to the ground to kiss the earth under his feet as a quite massive wall section fell onto him.
In years to come there would be local stories of the 'Humble Defier'. A naked man who shook his fist to the sky, showing the attackers that the Public of Prak's Will would not be crushed. A Hero to some, and a dammed madman to others..
War does indeed do strange things to people...
Entry 2
The RDMC Janitor's Closet
Entry 3
He reached out a trembling hand for the glass of water, still managing to cast a sultry look at Koko as she carefully negotiated any form of contact with him. His attempt at a seductive wink fell a bit short as the two eyelids splatted together softly, becoming mired in the gooey build up of blood and mucus, causing him to twitch his head as he tried to free the entwined hairs and restore his vision on that side. Turning his attention to the drink he sniffed it suspiciously for a moment but couldn't wait to analyse any scent, such was the unbearable fire scorching its way through his stomach and throat. As he raised the glass to his face he lamented quickly the fact that it didn't appear to be alcoholic, one red tear coursing its way down his right cheek, leaving a think scarlet line to display his devastating sorrow..
The drink didn't last long, pouring down his throat, chin, shirt. Most of it went where it was meant to, failing to sate the insatiable, quench the unquenchable... Extinguish the ever burning embers within him. Yeah, still thirsty he slams the glass down on the table and bellows to nobody in particular.
"Another!"
Followed by a thunderous belch that sent a colourful jet of flame dribbling from his lips. A trick of the light, a metaphor even, or just plain madness to be beheld? I don't give a shit, its up to you how you interpret it.
His mind, well... A part of his mind that I can still convincingly write about, that part of his mind wrenched the rest of its malfunctioning nodes onto the words being spoken. He too was thinking about irony and the Canadian who had seemed to get it all wrong. Though he expeted nothing more from that backwards race north of the American border, he nonetheless was willing to look for a possible stroke of brilliance. Could it not be, therefore, that the "irony" in Alanis Morisettes song was, in fact, that nothing she mentions was ironic? Therefore the song is, itself, ironic and is thus aptly named thus... savvy?
"Projection..."
He was familiar with the technique and mumbled the word as he dragged the dossier over to him, grabbing the red crayon as he did so. With deliberate precision, eyes intent, tongue poking out of the side of his mouth, he peeled all the paper from the crayon in his hand, leaving just the smooth waxy length in his blood-stained hand. The dossier was full of information, information which his edetic mind absorbed easily, despite his intoxicate state. Along with each target and information pertaining to was an image, several in some cases. With tongue still protruding he immediately set to creating a bloody tableau of each image, perhaps to signify the homicide to come? Perhaps pertaining to some sick ritual in which he liked to do his work...? Or perhaps he's just a weird sick fuck who likes scribbling with crayons...
His eyes flickered up briefly to Dresden, annoyed that he'd be referred to as if he were absent.
"I'm right here, Desmond...."
His eyes lowered to the page again as he negotiated a tricky fountain of blood with the now-blunt end of the crayon.
"That old spook won't remember anything you tell him anyway."
Force Projection wasn't specific to the dead and Caed already had it in his mind to do the whole job himself. Inky's arsehole may go and he'd probably seek redemption by grassing them up to the Jedi...
Bellend.
The drink didn't last long, pouring down his throat, chin, shirt. Most of it went where it was meant to, failing to sate the insatiable, quench the unquenchable... Extinguish the ever burning embers within him. Yeah, still thirsty he slams the glass down on the table and bellows to nobody in particular.
"Another!"
Followed by a thunderous belch that sent a colourful jet of flame dribbling from his lips. A trick of the light, a metaphor even, or just plain madness to be beheld? I don't give a shit, its up to you how you interpret it.
His mind, well... A part of his mind that I can still convincingly write about, that part of his mind wrenched the rest of its malfunctioning nodes onto the words being spoken. He too was thinking about irony and the Canadian who had seemed to get it all wrong. Though he expeted nothing more from that backwards race north of the American border, he nonetheless was willing to look for a possible stroke of brilliance. Could it not be, therefore, that the "irony" in Alanis Morisettes song was, in fact, that nothing she mentions was ironic? Therefore the song is, itself, ironic and is thus aptly named thus... savvy?
"Projection..."
He was familiar with the technique and mumbled the word as he dragged the dossier over to him, grabbing the red crayon as he did so. With deliberate precision, eyes intent, tongue poking out of the side of his mouth, he peeled all the paper from the crayon in his hand, leaving just the smooth waxy length in his blood-stained hand. The dossier was full of information, information which his edetic mind absorbed easily, despite his intoxicate state. Along with each target and information pertaining to was an image, several in some cases. With tongue still protruding he immediately set to creating a bloody tableau of each image, perhaps to signify the homicide to come? Perhaps pertaining to some sick ritual in which he liked to do his work...? Or perhaps he's just a weird sick fuck who likes scribbling with crayons...
His eyes flickered up briefly to Dresden, annoyed that he'd be referred to as if he were absent.
"I'm right here, Desmond...."
His eyes lowered to the page again as he negotiated a tricky fountain of blood with the now-blunt end of the crayon.
"That old spook won't remember anything you tell him anyway."
Force Projection wasn't specific to the dead and Caed already had it in his mind to do the whole job himself. Inky's arsehole may go and he'd probably seek redemption by grassing them up to the Jedi...
Bellend.