Greetings, losers and boozers (and boozy losers)
There's been a break whilst I recharged my batteries (seventeen AAA), but after having seen some of the awesome art that was created from the crossover comp I just had to get back on the horse (we're just good friends).
SO HERE IT IS:
A change from the norm here....
1) Comment with your intent to enter the comp or message me)
2) I will allocate you a 2000AD character
3) Write a story, 500 words or less, as told my that character about their own experience (in their own words as it were). Imagine it all taking place round a campfire.
4) Any subject is okay, just stay in character!
Now that's not at all confusing, and I know we've got some great stories ahead of us.
No two people will get the same character, so we will not a get a bazillion Dredd ones (although nothing to stop another character telling of how they met him... oh blarg I've done it now).
We'll run this until mid March, and I'll see you all at the 40th bash in London. Look for the lad with the Bad City Blue shirt (natch)
ta ta Thrill Suckers
BCB
In
Thought you might be Eamonn... :D
The Bad City Blue Randomator (TM) has allocated you...
The Space Girls!
NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!
he he... just my little joke. You actually get:
The Simping Detective.
have fun with it.
Also reporting for assignment...
okay Baggins...
Randomator has awarded you...
Middenface McNulty
Jings!
Not done it before, but I was a lucky voter last time so I will give this one a go.
Nice idea. Spin that wheel. As Ya Kid K used to say.
OK, consider me intrigued and willing to have an attempt... ?
Hit me
Reporting for duty, Sir!
Why not? I'm in too, although I'm dreading what the spinning wheel will bring... Aunty's Choice would be nice. ;)
Yeah, despite being a lazy prochrastinating waste of space I cannot let this opportunity pass me by. I am well in. Ta BCB
Blimey - I have a kip and everyone wants to play.
let's see what I have in me big bag of twothy characters...
RAGGED MAN - Zenith
URSULA K - ACE GARP
LEGENDARY SHARK - WALDO "D.R" DOBBS
MINKYBOY - DURHAM RED
STEAMRUNNER - SINISTER/DEXTER
MODERN PANTHER - MAX NORMAL
TIMOTHY - RO JAWS
Phew.... I've manhandled me bag way too much this morning...
I suppose I should get a character too, and as I'm the big boss it seems appropriate I should tell a tale of THARG THE MIGHTY!
Thanks for playing, chums and pals, look forward to reading your entries
BCB
Well, the chances are high that I'll get a character I know nothing about but as long as it's not Nikolai Dante or something I guess I'll have time to catch up. Fire up the randomatron and I'll cross my fingers...
and ECHIDNA gets... NIKOLAI DAN.... No... wait... let's try again
ahem
and ECHIDNA gets... BILL SAVAGE
cor blimey, strike a light etc etc
I'll give it a go.
Apologies for the stupid question, but: deadline is when?
Sounds good, I'll give it a go.
Cheers
DEADLINE IS MID MARCH.
Enigmatic Dr X gets... RO JAWS
NapalmKev gets... SAM SLADE (that's 's-l-a-y-e-d' to you)
I'm in !
Count me in please BBC. Hopefully my broadband will be set up before the comp ends and I won't be hitchhiking the digital highway (as in leeching off friends and family) like Bill Bixby at the end of every episode of The Incredible Hulk!
Ooo, 2 Ro Jaws tales, and I'm up against some pretty stiff competition there.
CLAVELL..... you get CHOPPER
HEATH C ACKLEY...you get GIANT in the HARLEM HEROES DAYS
ohmigod I got Zenith!
No pressure there then!
Cheers BCB
OMG !! I got Chopper !! :D :D
Giant! Harlem Heroes was one of my favourite strips when I was knee high to a molecule (I haven't grown much since then).
Ah gwan then, I'll give it a go seeing as it's the 40th special n'all that (even though I still haven't won one of these & don't have any resentments - honest!)
Hit me with any that are left BCB! ...(Has Nemesis gone yet?) :)
JACQUSIE.... you get the big one... the main man... BONJO FROM BEYOND THE STARS
Nah, you get ROGUE TROOPER nice one!
Well that's a nice sprinkling of characters and writers.
BAD CITY BLUE
"Mighty One"
Hi everyone, my name is Tharg, and I'm an alcoholic.
Thank you... it's been seventeen years since my last drink. I remember it well, it was a glass of MacMac I got from a pointy headed trucker. Hoo boy it was strong, and I decided there and then I'd never drink again, but you all know that story, right?
It all started in the mid Seventies when I landed on this planet. I guess I should point out to new people that this isn't a mask, it's really me. Okay, I know it looks like someone painted a neantherthal mask green and stapled a brooch and pony tail to it but what can you do - Tornado comic had to live with the world's most unconvincing superhero as their editor. Hey, you should see what I used to wear in those days – should have called me boiler suit bobby not Tharg The Mighty.
Anyway, there I was in seventy six, and I decided the planet needed saving from thrill suckers. Seriously! Well, I say seriously but it was all bollocks. That said the mugs at IPC bought it hook, line and sinker and let me start a comic up. Remember this was the seventies, IPC would let you start a comic based on Andy Capp's son if you spun them a good enough yarn.
So I decided I'd do a science fiction comic because, you know, I'm a frickin' alien and all. Been there, done that, got the Rosette Of Sirius, right? I got this dope smoking genius called Mills to run it for me, and this guy was dynamite. We decided to call it 2000AD because it sounded very cool and futuristic.
You know what? It worked. We were a hit, and everything was going well, but in the Nineties I developed a serious polystyrene cup habit, plus cocaine and booze as well. Things went a little mental – I filled the comic up with shite like The Space Girls, Urban Strike and A Life Less Ordinary, and at one point I turned the whole shebang over to a bunch of those men In Black arseholes. Oh yeah – they're real too, except in real life they are complete and utter tossers. They took my comic and shat all over it whilst I crawled into the bottle.
Eventually I managed to come to my senses and realized that I needed to sort everything out, to be Mighty again and not just another addict. I spanked the Men In Black with a few well placed Rigellian hotshots, then got a new publisher who actually gave a toss about the comic. That was in 2000, and I haven't drunk, shot up or nibbled a polystyrene cup since.
My glorious organ, settle down at the back, just celebrated forty years in print, and I am still the Mightiest of editors. If you take nothing else from my story take this – no matter how down you are, you can always stage a Rebellion.
Thank you.
Quote from: Bad City Blue on 06 February, 2017, 10:38:52 PM
JACQUSIE.... you get the big one... the main man... BONJO FROM BEYOND THE STARS
Nah, you get ROGUE TROOPER nice one!
Nice one, thanks BCB! I've re-read some Bonjo recently & it wasn't that bad really, it had some Kev O'Neill art - although it did hurt my head by the end of it!
So to Rogue... no pressure! :)
Quote from: Jacqusie on 18 February, 2017, 08:22:56 PM
Quote from: Bad City Blue on 06 February, 2017, 10:38:52 PM
JACQUSIE.... you get the big one... the main man... BONJO FROM BEYOND THE STARS
Nah, you get ROGUE TROOPER nice one!
Nice one, thanks BCB! I've re-read some Bonjo recently & it wasn't that bad really, it had some Kev O'Neill art - although it did hurt my head by the end of it!
So to Rogue... no pressure! :)
I preferred Dash Decent to Bonjo (then again the 1980s Flash Gordon film is one of my faves).
Simping ain't easy.
The name's Jack Point. Jack as in "You know ...", and Point as in "I'm getting to it, already".
Funny story as it happens. I'm all about the funny me. And trouble. Trouble is my business.
She came into my office just as I was starting a big sleep, or a little personal Jack off-time as I call it. She looked like that trouble I was telling you about, trouble spelled S-E-X. She had the sort of curves that would make an old Bishop weep.
The job was easy, find a guy, and recover some weird bird sculpture he had stolen from her. 50,000 credits for delivery of her little flappy friend. That would keep my in carrots for a while and stop my landlord chasing me with a two by four every time he saw me.
I asked all the usual, assured her of total discretion, said of course I wouldn't ask any tricky questions about the statue. Sentimental value, gift from her little sister apparently. Keep your nose out was what she was telling me. She went like a long goodbye, and left me looking out of my high window. There was a bad smell, and it wasn't coming from my size 18 clown shoes, or the crappy carrots I smoke. A little bird was telling me something strange was going down.
I put my big red nose to the grindstone for three days and then set up the meet. She didn't want to come in to the office, wanted somewhere remote. I scouted out a disused warehouse and arranged to meet the lady in the Lake-side storage facility. I was early, she was late. She went straight to where I had left the little black statue on a packing case and immediately tore the label off its base.
"Looking for this?"I asked, holding up the data slug.
She opened her purse and pulled out a Lazinger pistol. I don't like it when people point guns at me, tends to take the fun out of things if you know what I mean.
"Come clean, Lady. Tell me about this chip and we can end this the easy way without anyone getting hurt."
She looked amused. "Hurt? Why, Mr Point, I believe I've got you covered."
"Funny. I was just thinking the same about you. See I've got a little insurance policy. Double indemnity you might say. All I have to do is whistle and it will be farewell, my lovely."
"Ever the joker eh, Point. But you're bluffing. If you have the drop on me why haven't you pulled the trigger yet?"
"Let me tell you the secret of great comedy ...."
I just put my lips together and blew.
The piano fell from the roof. WHUMPF! The lady vanishes.
"...it's timing."
Punch lines. They can be real killers.
People laughed when I said I was going to be a Simp, well they're not laughing now.
Nice one Eamonn.
Waldo "D.R." Dobbs
in
What's the "D.R." Stand For?
Like, seriously, Man? The prison's on fire and that's the only question you got? Well, I get asked it a lot and we got plenty of time 'til the S.W.A.T. teams show up so, okay, I'll give you the Definitive Report. Hey, anybody got marshmallows? No? Shame. Seems like a waste of a good conflagration, yeah?
Anyhoop, you remember my first parole hearing when I'd been in this dump for, like, five years? Back then I said the "D.R." stood for "Definitely Rehabilitated," which it really didn't. I tried, though. When that spankstick of a governor learned about how I'd been in the movie biz he put me to work in the prison's animatronic workshop, and I was real spooky at it, Man. Made animatronic puppets for all sorts. You ever see "FartScrape" or "Stan's Labyrinth"? They were mine. Made tons of bread for the prison, enough to build a new wing. F-Wing, they called it. Dumb name. Should have called it the Dobbs Ranch, you dig? Pfah. Modern, though. You can see through the rubble it's the only wing not on fire. Cool, huh?
I'd secretly built an animatronic of myself to send to that first parole hearing, Man, because I get, like, kinda upset an' shouty, "Distinctly Reactionary," you might say. Heh. The real me hid in the laundry but the Governor got wise because I used the wrong synthi-skin colour and he sent the animatronic off to the tip while I was put back in a cell, which was, like, really heavy, Man. Decidedly Recaptured.
So, here we all is, thirty five years later and this is my second parole hearing. You like the show I laid on for you? Exciting, ain't it? Destruction Rampant, Man! See, all I got to do is wait for E-Wing to blow up, 'cause that's where the cctv transmitters are, then everyone will think I died in the, like, explosion in here, Dude. A Defunct Recidivist. Wow, there it goes! Sure is pretty, yeah? Now I just open this drawer in my stomach and arm the atom bomb...
You look confused, Man. Ain't you got it, yet? I painted the real me with the wrong skin colour thirty five years ago, got myself Declared Rubbish and chucked away. Ever since then, the "D.R." has stood for Decoy Robot.
Like, boom, boom, Man...
Nice
Ta.
Splut.
Forty. Forty thousand. Four-oh-kay. He'd been running now for forty thousand years.
Splut.
And it always been there. In the background, under the bedlam and between the bullets. The sound.
Splut.
It was the sound of drip. Most people think of that as the sound of a drop of water. They were wrong, of course. A drop of water makes no sound. It coalecses and falls in perfect silence. A drip was the sound of it landing.
Splut.
This wasn't the sound you get from a picture. No perfect ripples reflecting light. This was dark and dank, the noise made when water hits something organic. Something turgid.
Splut.
It was his dark little secret. Every week that noise was in the background. Getting louder, growing impatient. Eventually, he had to scratch the itch. If he missed out, he could be out of sorts for months.
Splut.
No matter where he was, or what he was doing. Ro-busters rescues. The Black Hole. Termight. A smoking battlefield. It was there, in his mind, and he had to scratch an itch.
Splut.
It was just the way he was made. He knew he didn't need it. But it had always been there.
Splut.
It was his dirty secret. He never spoke about it. No one would understand. At his age? Why hadn't he given it up? He could have it seen to. Reprogramming was cheap and easy.
Splut.
But conforming bothered him. Deep down, he was worried that this is what defined him. He knew it was daft. But he would miss it, miss it terribly, if it went.
Splut.
Once a week, he had to have his hit. Once a week, he had to unblock something. A pipe. A toilet. Anything solid but slimey. Something to bury his trowel.
Splut.
There had been tough times. A patch twenty thousand years ago when he'd been shovelling sand. But he'd stuck with it.
Splut.
Ro-jaws had to admit. He was an addict. He loved this shit.
Wotcher, mateys, it's your old pal Ro-Jaws here. The cheeky nerk what keeps coming back to mix things up and put old Hammerstiff in his place. We've had a laugh together over the last 40 years, and it's been a lot better under snot-face Tharg than it was under that ponce Starlord, but you know what? I've just about had e-bleedin-nough. I mean, I know what people think. "Here come smelly Ro-Jaws" people say "he'll be good for a toilet joke and a comedy swear". But who gets to shift the story along? Who gets the action? Who gets the big speeches? The character development? The girls? Not muggins here, that's for sure, and that's what I'm pig sick of.
Time was I could have done the lot. Slapstick - no problem; action - let me at it; romance - I'd tug your heart strings like nobody's business. I had range, see. Range, and real potential. Like a young Dudley Moore but with better teeth. And you know when it all went wrong? The minute I bumped into that twannock, Mills, that's when. Promised me the world, he did. Told me about how he wrote nearly everything in comics worth reading and how if I stuck with him I could have a piece of the action. Told me I'd be a cover star, that I'd have parts in all his big stories: Ro-busters, Nemesis, ABC Warriors, he told me I could have the lot and more. What he didn't tell me was that the parts were no more than mockney light relief to set against his real stars. So for 40 flamin' years I've been typecast as the cheeky little chappie to be trotted out whenever he had a new fake swear word to road test. So now what am I good for? Chuff all. My career is right down the pan, which is ironic given the role I've been stitched up with.
I don't think I'd mind so much if I actually was a salt-of-the-earth lovable cockney, but I'm not. I'm actually from pretty good stock, not that I ever get a chance to show any sort of breeding with the parts I'm landed with. I mean, it just sickens me to have to wave that ridiculous shovel about when I've got all the proper attachments - soup spoon, fish slice, the lot - but I'm not allowed to use them. It makes me look like such an oaf. And my casing is actually Rolls Royce you know, yet Mills has it smeared in shit every time I'm on. I reckon he's just jealous.
Well no more. This worm has turned, and unless I get some decent roles - proper meaty stuff that'll have me up for awards - then Mills can stick it up his arris . It's time for a new me; smart, polished, a robot with a bit of class and with smooth moves to match. See you on the podium, chums.
Old Man Slade.
He woke to the tune of his own screams, 'Broken bones in Pain Major'. Blessed unconsciousness quickly followed.
"He's Fucking OLD! His mind's gone! What possible use can he be?"
Waking up was a lot easier the second time. The symphony of pain had dulled to a slow, rythmic aching.
The room was dark; save for a small glow just above, which only illuminated a mess of tubes protruding from his chest. Synthetic Serpents, slithering into the darkness taking his body and soul with them... Or so he thought. Thinking hadn't been his strong point for a good many years now. Until the treatments had happened.
"Excellent results for the most part, Sir! 'Machine-Killer Dave' didn't make it I'm afraid. And 'Sausage John' went right off the deep end... We had to put him down!"
Sam tried to pull him self upright, disturbing the life-sucking chest snakes, and sending new waves of pain through his broken body. A small alarm began chirping just off to his left... Is this what it had come to? A lifetime of destroying Robots and now he was being kept alive by a machine. The irony of it all!
Broken! That was exactly how he felt. Not damaged or frail... Broken! The once great Sam Slade: Robo-Hunter. Scourge of the Mechanical Miscreants, Bane of the Beta-Test! (He wasn't quite sure what the latter really meant so he never used it in public). Forced out of retirement into a War he forsaw years ago...
"We've picked up a signal, Sir. It's.. 'Alpha Team'... Sir, they've secured the target!"
Sam shouted into the darkness, "Hello! Is anybody there? If so could you please turn THE FUCKING LIGHTS ON!"
The Void roared back - The sound of deafening silence mixed with imagined whispered mutterings. Surely they wouldn't have forgotten an old war hero? Would they?
"Once the target is in custody I want all teams to be shut down! We have no further use of them!"
Old Max, he's been around for a while, you dig? The pinstrike freak is long past his peak. But sure, sure, I'll give you one more dance at the shuggy ball. Shall we say, a hundred creds for the win? I'm a little rusty. You can break.
Shuggy's a dying art. Was a time, there were parlours on every corner. A game of skill and chance. The great equalizer. Folks complain about the immigrants, aliens and apes and muties. Shuggy don't discriminate and neither does Max. Its less about the DNA and all about how they play. A man of any hue can wield the shuggy cue.
Nice. Nice separation you got there. Hand me the chalk would you, friend?
Young Max, he grew up in parlours like this one. All the charm of cheap bracelet. Max had a genuine talent from a young age. Purple ball, third pocket. Spent more time in the shuggy groove than was healthy for a fresh faced juve. Talent got me noticed by some important people with non of their own. Max got a criminal patrician, who saw the creds that could be made from magician with ambition
I travelled Big Meg, from the low life streets to the penthouse suites. Let me tell you, some of the scenes I've seen on the scene have been obscene. Its a flat world, full of squares, living their lives in little boxes. Orange ball, rebound to top pocket. From Sector to Sector, Max made money for bad guys, raking in the funds, taking out pros and rubes alike, taking in all the crazy this crazy world has to offer. It was a good life, compared to most. But being a performing monkey wasn't my style, you dig?
Ma and Pa Normal, they didn't raise a fool. Max decided he wouldn't play by the rules. Hence the threads. Thank you. They're custom made. I'll give you my tailor's card. Ball nine into pocket two.
I know what they all see...just another freak. Never judge a kook by his cover, my friend. Maxie Normal is unique. The cool cat in the bowler hat, he knows where its at. And being the golden goose for the mob isn't exactly a long term plan.
A young man with a talent, through tooth and manicured claw, he can change the world. But in the Big Meg, that deck is stacked. Amid all this insantity, the real problem is the criminality. So what Max did next, well, that knowledge is more common than those polka dot kneepads with the red trim. Old J.D, he doesn't exactly put the "b" in "subtle", whilst a lounge lizard, pinball wizard stands out like a dapper thumb.
Standing up for the common man, for what's right, that's every man's duty. Besides, the shampaine and sartorial stylings don't pay for themselves. Black stripes, middle pocket.
Bad luck, Buddy. Looks like old Max got lucky. What do you say to double or nothing?
500 Words with Zenith
By Phoebe Thorn
Guardian Magazine 11/02/17
At 49 Robert Neal Cassady Macdowell is still disarmingly handsome. He's currently laughing about an ill-fated collaboration from his ill-fated 'not-a-comeback' album, 1995's World-Shaper. 'I'm on the old Apple Corps building and Acid Archie's across the street and we're Frisbee-ing Crispy... Crispin... whatever he's called, to each other [Crispian Mills, lead singer of Kula Shaker]. He's screaming and Archie's singing Let it Be...' He nearly chokes on the remains of his second bottle. 'I heard he shaved his head, moved to India and became a terrorist... There's nothing worse than a posh boy with a guitar...'
'But you don't want to talk about the music. No one ever does. You're here about that time I punched a Nazi'.
Yes, I admit, I want to talk punching Nazis.
'It hurts... Ha! ...Don't think I've told anyone that before.' He orders another bottle. 'Bullets bounce off the guy. Getting your hand through that, the skin, the muscle, the ribs, the spine. It hurts.' He sneers at me. 'Is that what you wanted to know?'
Was he scared?
'No... it's all so fast. One second Siadwell's kicking arse the next he's dead and London's on fire. There's no time to feel anything.'
He's never spoken about what happened next. I read him John Smith's famous eyewitness account '...poison cloud of teeth and eyes, seething from broken body, sickening the world...'
He downs his glass in one and bats the question away. 'That's just what happens when you put your fist through a Nazi.'
It's this incident that has given the forgotten pop-star and former super-brat an unlikely new life as the symbol of protest against the rise of the global right. Every march, every demo from London to Washington to Moscow; emblazoned across the chests of thousands is the electro-Z swoosh of the Zenith logo.
MacDowell's response was to sue for royalties. 'Lies' he waves over another bottle. With perfect timing the TV has started showing today's protests in Parliament Square. 'I initiated an exploratory process to clarify issues of ownership.' Unusually he sounds like he's reading from a script. 'Anyway, I don't own it, rare oversight from Eddie there, RIP, but no one's making any money off it. Today's freedom fighters like things free. Do you know how many records I've sold off the back of this? So few it's less embarrassing to say none.'
'I blame St John.'
For your record sales?
'No. For all of it. This.' He waves at News 24. 'He thought he was so bloody clever. Had us all in his palm. But he slipped and everything's gone to hell.'
He raises a toast 'Save us from those who want to save the world.'
I think I've finally caught a glimpse of the real Robert. The man behind the brat.
Do you have a message for them? He looks at the screen, the army of ersatz Zeniths swarming over William Whitlock's statue. Then he turns to me, eyes clear, mouth set. 'Buy. My. Records. You. Cheap. Bastards.'
Now we're cooking with gas.
Charming...
That is bloody good though isn't it
Indeed it is.
THE SCOUT
I found him in the college arena. Clay flew alone, working on his penalty shot. The thunk of the steel ball hitting home brought back memories, most of them unpleasant. I limped over to the centre zone. The team management had been watching the kid for a long time. He had the talent - and more importantly - the balls to play professionally. The college aeroball season was far from over but we feared that another team would soon step in to claim him.
'John Clay.' I shielded my eyes against the floodlights. 'I thought you would be taller.'
Beneath the tinted visor, his eyes narrowed with suspicion.
'I've heard a lot of talk about you Clay. You've built up quite a rep. I was expecting some kind of giant.'
'Stick around.'
That's right. That's where he got the name - from me.
'You're Jim Strode.' He descended to stand before me. 'You used to play for the Heroes.'
He gave me that look. Everyone does. Yeah, I'm that Jim Strode - the one who, with enough pills to stock a drugstore in his bloodstream, hit the arena floor at ninety. I handed him my holo-card. The heat of my touch activated the clip of my winning goal in the '48 final. The attitude left Clay. His eyes went wide and his mouth comically dropped open.
'Yeah, I'm their chief scout now.'
'The Heroes want me?'
'You can play son and we think there's a place for you on the team.' I slapped his arm. 'Talk to your family and give me a call.'
A grin stretched across his face. I gave him the pitch.
'There's a support group for rookies like you. They can get you a nice place or help your family with a little cash. Maybe you want a car or a girl or something to make you feel better?'
The grin died.
'You don't have to do anything now.' I shrugged. 'But later, when you're a pro, you could provide information or perhaps help them out during a game.'
His expression soured. He thrust the holo-card back at me.
'If that's what it takes to play for the Harlem Heroes then I want no part of it.'
'Well done John.' I clicked my fingers. 'You passed the audition. I'll see you at the Academy.'
I left him in the silent arena, still staring at the card in his hands. Clay had chosen the right path. I was another story. Taking out my cell phone, I called the Asshole.
'Clay hasn't made a decision yet but I know he's in. I'm sorry but he won't co-operate with the Red Room.'
'Can he be pushed?'
'I advise you against that Mr Cord.' I gripped the phone hard. 'The Heroes need this kid.'
'I'm beginning to regret my investment in your recovery Strode.' The Asshole sighed. 'But I'll keep Clay out of it. There are other ways to control the team and the game.'
Some great stories, though some spuggers have not followed the brief...
Quote from: Bad City Blue on 13 March, 2017, 11:29:57 AM
Some great stories, though some spuggers have not followed the brief...
Apologies! I lost two previous drafts through a combination of Weed, liquor and a shit laptop. My third draft (my actual story) is patchy at best and I managed to miss a key section that was present in both previous drafts.
I certainly don't expect to win but I plan on re-writing the story (just for fun) and will post it sometime if anyone would like to read it.
Cheers
Quote from: Bad City Blue on 13 March, 2017, 11:29:57 AM...some spuggers have not followed the brief...
(http://similesmiles.com/simages/ashamed.png)
Now I know how editors feel!
Quote from: The Legendary Shark on 13 March, 2017, 12:19:27 PM
Quote from: Bad City Blue on 13 March, 2017, 11:29:57 AM...some spuggers have not followed the brief...
(http://similesmiles.com/simages/ashamed.png)
Off-topic stories make Shako a sad polar bear...
Aw, now I want to do a Shako story instead of Savage. Sorry Bill, I'm getting nowhere.
Ooops...(clears throat, shuffles feet and mumbles an apology)...Back to the drawing board!
That's My Name.
Justice Department audio transcript. Extract of statement by Marlon Shakespeare / aka Chopper / aka The Midnight Surfer.
I just wanted everybody to know my name, that's all. That's all. That's why I was a scrawler, and that's why I was the 'Midnight Surfer', but you'll never understand. Judges can't understand anything like that, because you're not human anymore. You'll never understand being one nobody in a city full of them, trying not to stand out because you'll just step on us as hard as you can. Even the Phantom understood that, and he was a robot. You stepped on us both, but you didn't step on me hard enough or long enough to keep me down. That means I've beaten you, doesn't it ? You can't keep me down. You can't break me, and you know it. You heard it out there tonight. They were all shouting my name ! You can lock me in those cubes for ten years or twenty, it won't make any difference. I'll still be King Surfer. Just like I was King Scrawler. Even if they don't remember me when I come out, even if I never come out. I did it. I still did it. I took that tunnel backwards. Carrying Yamamoto ! I won Supersurf Seven ! I beat the Judges when they tried to stop me - they couldn't stop me ! Now everybody knows my name ! Everybody knows Chopper !
A QUESTION OF SUPPORT
'Hi, I'm John 'Giant' Clay of the Harlem Heroes. Every aeroball player needs support. Out there in the arena, I rely on the trust and support of my team-mates like Curly, Slim and Zack. I watch their backs and they watch mine. When you're flying at one hundred miles an hour towards the studded fist of an opponent, you need friends there with you. As with any modern athlete, I welcome the chance to connect with the team supporters. After every game, I like to go over to the stands and personally thank the fans for their support. You guys are the real reason we won the World Championships. Confidence and support are vital in the game and in life. That's why I wear Knut-Sak Athletic Support Garments. Strap one on today and you're ready to take on the world!'
You Too Can Be A Giant With Knut-Sac!
please note that garments do not protect genitals against jet-powered kicks, fists or steel balls.
Any more for any more?
Quote from: Bad City Blue on 15 March, 2017, 11:26:59 AM
Any more for any more?
I thought the deadline was the middle of March? If the comp is running for a couple more days I could probably produce something - closer to the original 'brief' than my last effort.
If not, no worries.
Cheers
go for it
Quote from: NapalmKev on 15 March, 2017, 01:14:52 PM
Quote from: Bad City Blue on 15 March, 2017, 11:26:59 AM
Any more for any more?
I thought the deadline was the middle of March? If the comp is running for a couple more days I could probably produce something - closer to the original 'brief' than my last effort.
If not, no worries.
Cheers
Cheers, BCB! Right, here we go...
"Fire's looking good, now where are the Snuttin' sausages? I'm starved!"
"Right then, now those baby's are cooking I'd like to tell you a story! A tale of subterfuge..., sneakery... Bastardy of the highest level! I'm going to tell you about the time I got tricked by a robot."
"Give 'em a turn, make sure they don't burn! Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, Myself, 'Machine-Killer Dave', 'Phil Dangerous' and 'Sausage John' were sent to Tibet to meet with a Guy who reckoned he had information on some Big Threat that was supposedly heading Earth's way... Yeah, I know how it sounds - A bunch of old Geezer's going to meet some Geezer on a Mountain full of...um, Geezer's! 'Snutting Bullshit' I thought but we couldn't ignore a potential threat to old 'Mother Mud', so off we trotted... Mmmm smell those Badboy's... to meet this Guy..."
"...and he tells us what's what! Big Brain was back... Yeah, I Know... The Big Bad himself. I was less than impressed to say the least and I thought John was going to cry but we held it together for the most part. Anyway, he goes on to tell us about an army of Robot's being amassed off World, and how we've been infiltrated by a new kind of shifty metal bastard - one's that could pass as Human! I remember Phil's words, clear as day...'No Robot could ever get past us, we're the best that Humankind has to offer! Sam alone has killed millions of the Snutter's! Who was that famous dude you killed Sam? The Theme-Park bloke... Walt Hitler was it? He thought he could try it on and got...', and then Phil's head disappeared from his shoulders and ended up mostly on my Hat and Jacket! Turns out the Guy we met was one of the new Robot's and he had lured 'Humankind's Best' into a trap!... How're the Pig's doing? Have we got any ketchup?"
"...and we made it! Now then, do you know what the moral of the story is kids? Tommy? Clarissa? How about you Kabir?... No? Well neither do I but one thing's for certain - I ain't being caught twice by the same Snuttin' trick!"
Sam reached into his Jacket...