Break out your quills and ink, dust off that rickety typewriter and prepare to travel backward in time to record for future generations the thrills and adventures of would-be pasts and alternate days of yore were they inhabited by your favourite Twothy characters!
Sorry 'bout that - excuse my pretentious wankery - I forgot we're doing Time Twisters, not Tongue Twisters. I'll let our illustrious Lady Festina tell it in plain English:
"OK, after much deliberation (and despite the popularity of 2000 Gay-D on the forum - perhaps next time!), I think it's Time Travel Time.
So a story featuring a 2000AD character going, well, back (or forward, depending where they start!) in time, to some point in (Earth-bound) history... the Colosseum in Rome, the march of the Plague across 14th century Europe, the trenches of World War One....
No doubt we will be inundated with LGBT innuendo and appropriate amounts of smut, but at least let's pretend we're being all lofty and BBC2 about it :-)"
So there we have it: anything goes as long as the story takes place in a real past and includes a character from the pages of the Prog*. Keep the word count round 500 words. The comp starts NOW and ends the 1st of March at 6pm on your sundial.
*Stories in which Russian Rogue Nikolai Dante time travels to the 70's to spearhead a Porn Revolution are excluded. Sorry Roger.
Are you sure with it ending on the 1st of March as that doesn't give much time to write a masterpiece :o
You may have read this just in time and have been able to edit your post, which will make me look mad, but hey ho!
OMG I meant April!!!! I blew it on my first go!!!!
April 1st, April 1st, April 1st!!!!!!
Phew! my post doesn't look strange now!
Entries in on April Fools day!
No-one's ever very good the first time, Locusts, don't you worry....
(Oops, am now editing this as I realise that you're the Bug In Charge and I should be more appreciative of your good work. Marvellous introduction. And appropriate for a Time Travel theme that the dates should be a bit mixed up.....)
You're done, Lady F. Don't even bother to write another sentence in this thread >:(.
I thought my first intro was quite good otherwise...
It was, truly, arsom.
My newest rule: No girls allowed. 2000 Gay-D indeed.
Nice one Locust. Don't know why but "Branch Moronians do the Spanish Inquisition" sprang into my mind. Needs fleshing out a bit obviously...
At last! My blatently obvious mind spanning idea to have the Mega city Judges join in World War 2 can now be regurgatated upon a cowering public!
Step aside Tarantino and your Inglorious Bastards.
Hitler V's Judge Dredd. Whose the bigger Nazi?! ;)
FIVE HAVE FUN IN LONDON
It was a beautiful day on Kirrin Island, but then again it always seemed to be a beautiful day there, as long as there weren't any nasty types getting up to mischief. Anne and Dick were playing catch whilst Julian drank ginger beer. George and Timmy were off exploring, although heaven knew if there was any part of the island they hadn't yet become acquainted with. Suddenly, there was a commotion as George came running up.
"I say!" she shouted. "You must all come and look at what Timmy and I have found"
"Woof" said Timmy, as if in agreement, and they all followed obediently.
They caught up with George, who led them to the old ruined cottage. This certainly wasn't new, but they followed her in, only to find an eerie white light hovering in the living room.
"How queer," said Anne. "I wonder what it is."
"Look!" said George. She picked up a stick from the floor and threw it at the light. It simply disappeared like it had never even been there. As the four stood, mouths agape, Timmy did what dogs are supposed to do - he fetched the stick.
"Timmy!" shrieked George. "No!" But she was too late, and Timmy disappeared as well.
"Gosh!" Exclaimed Dick. "Whatever are we going to do?"
"We have to follow him," stated Julian in his most grown up voice (the one that always gave Anne a strange tingle in the gusset).
They all agreed and, linking arms, stepped into the light...
... and into a war zone.
The first thing they saw was Timmy, bleeding on the street.
"Sorry luv," said a deep, authoritative voice. "Din't know it was anyone's pooch - thought he was a Volgan attack hound."
The big man looked very common indeed, and rather frightening with his steely eyes and smoking shotgun.
"Bill Savage," he said, extending his hand. "What the fuck are you kids doin' out on the streets?"
"I'm awfully sorry," said Julian, shaking the man's hand and nearly yelping in pain from the grip, "but we don't actually know where we are. We were on Kirrin Island and there was this light..."
"Volgan time tech," said Savage knowingly. "Been dragging up all sorts shouldn't be here. What year are you from?"
"N-Ninteen Forty six," stammered Ann.
"Well you're in 1990 now, kiddiewinks, and Britain's been invaded by the Volgs. Any of you use a shooter before?"
"I should say not!" exclaimed Julian, but George had other ideas.
"They killed my fuckin' DOG!" she snarled, picking up a pistol from a fallen Volg. "Let's get the bastards!"
"That's the spirit luv," said Savage. "What's yer name anyway?"
"Georgina," said George, "But I hate that name. Just call me, I dunno, Silk"
"Silk it is," grinned Savage. "Let's go and fuck up some Volgs."
As Savage and "Silk" scoooted off, Julian, Dick and Ann stood bemused.
They never even heard the mortar that blew them into tiny bits.
Bad show!
Ha!
Whizoh story emceehamster and quick off the bat too!
emceehamster you're an animal for the writing!
I dont have a clue what I could write for this one. I think I want to do something in feudal Japan, with samurais, but other than that, no idea.
How many of you have already started work on a Strontium Dog tale?
heh... I always think of these things whilst I'm trying to sleep.
First I decided I wanted to have the Famous 5 in it, so that meant Earth based. I was tempted to do Dredd but that was too easy, and Invasion just seemed right.
the initial idea was not what came out, I just tend to make up the salient points as I write, and I almost never re write.
It just seemed like fun to me, and I've decided to do more than 1 entry again. Sod trying to win, I just like creating this shit!
Anyway, if I won my themes would be too twisted for you guys! Except Roger...
Bang on!Emcee
Absolutely spiffing opener there. Good show!
Good story Emcee, I had a chuckle at "Kirrin Island". Must be 'cause I'm so fucking nice.
Damn it! Missed a trick there - should'a said hell with the original stories and went for Kerrin island.
Well it was originally named after me during one of my own time travelling jaunts. Bumped into Enid in the "Coopers Aneurism" drinking her usual Jagermeister and Special Brew, she thought I was such a pleasant chap that she named the island after me. Unfortunately she was so wankered she misheard and called it "Kirrin Island". Silly drunk bitch.
:lol: :lol: :lol: :lol:
Emceehamster, thats a great new philosophy you've got there. To heck with trying to win, the fun is in putting these things together. I had an idea on the train on the way home from work and just had to get it down. I may do another one later but for now, lets get the ball rolling with this little ditty.
The Cover UpJuly 8,1947, and a
terrible tragedy unfolds, as a
benevolent messenger from
beyond the stars crashes to Earth, his
malfunctioning spacecraft throwing him
backwards in time, sixty years off course!
*
"What d'ya think, Major?" the man in the back of the jeep asked, eyes wide as he chewed on a well-chewed toothpick. "You think we might find us a live one?"
Marcel snorted, bouncing in his seat as he guided the jeep across rugged terrain.
"A
live one, a
dead one, there better be
some one, or you'll be in a heap o' trouble Brazel! If you's spinnin' me sum bullshit I'll see you spend chrissmas in a cell! Wastin' military time is a serious offence, son."
"I ain't joshin', Major, honest! I seen it come down alright, no mistake!"
"No mistake, huh? Then where in tarnation is it? We been drivin' round like grade A assholes for two hours, an' I am gettin' mighty..."
The black suited man in the passenger seat suddenly held up a hand and silenced the Major.
"Shut up," he said, dropping his binoculars and replacing the dark glasses that had rested in his lap. "There it is."
The Major saw it and took his foot off the gas, bringing the jeep to a halt.
Before them, spread out across the parched desert earth, was the wreckage of the UFO Brazel had witnessed crashing the night before.
The men dismounted and made their way towards the largest chunk of debris, no sooner reaching it than a noise sounded within and a scorched panel fell clear, revealing a bloodied, green-skinned being trapped inside.
Marcel cursed, drawing his gun.
Brazel clapped, letting out a holler.
The man in black smiled, adjusting his shades.
"Earthlets...help...it is I, the Mighty ThaaaAAARRGGHHHH!!"
The alien screamed as a single bullet blasted from Marcel's gun and punched a hole through his chest, splattering blood across the wreckage and killing him.
"
Mighty? You ain't mighty
nuthin'! 'Cept mighty DEAD!"
"GodDAMNIT!" snapped the man in black, wheeling away and slapping his forehead.
"What?" Marcel challenged. "That sumbitch came ta invade us! I jest did us a favour!"
The man in black didn't respond, just hurried back to the jeep to operate the field radio.
"Asshole," Marcel spat, holstering his gun and turning back to the wreckage.
Brazel had found a busted container and removed something from it, which he was poring over excitedly .
"What ya got there?" Marcel enquired, ambling over.
"Comics!" Brazel gushed, grabbing another from the box and thrusting it at him. "Ones I ain't never seen the likes of! My son's gonna shit when I bring these home!"
"Comics?" Marcel sneered, taking the paper from Brazel and quickly flicking through it.
Suddenly, he rolled it up and snatched Brazel's copy away, pushing the younger man aside.
"This ain't goin' nowhere, 'cept back to the base at Roswell.
All o' this is property o' the United States Government now, son, an' you better ferget ya ever seen it,
especially this alien propaganda! Two thousand Ay-Dee? No way boy.
"Whatever this is, the world ain't never gonna know about it.
"Because none of this EVER happened!"
*
Pray it isn't so,
Earthlets!
Pray it isn't so!
"Mighty ThaaaAAARRGGHHHH!!"
Ah ha ha, beautiful. A great start to the comp, fellows.
I've just violently ejaculated my rough draft (that's a warning of what's in store for all of you - in the story of course). BUt of course I probably won't post it until a day or two before the comp's end...
SALVE (468 words)
You go from dream to dream inside me. You have passage to my last shabby corner, and there, among the debris, you've found life. I'm no longer sure which of all the words, images, dreams or ghosts are 'yours' and which are 'mine'. It's past sorting out. We're both being someone new now, someone incredible...
His act of faith. In the street the children are singing:
Hark, the herald angles sing
Mrs. Simpson's pinched our King...
Up on the mantelpiece Sooty's son Kim, an alarmingly fat crosseyed Siamese, lurks waiting to do the only thing he enjoys these days. Reading 2000 AD. Beyond eating, sleeping or fucking his chief obsession is to jump, or topple, on his mother, and lie there laughing while she runs screaming around the room. Jessica's sister Nancy comes out of the loo where she was reading 2000 AD in World War 2 to break up what's becoming a full-scale row between Elizabeth and Claire over whether Slaine was better than ABC Warriors. Jessica steps away from Roger Mexico not me to blow her nose. The sound is as familiar to him as a bird's song or "I am the Law" by Anthrax, ip - ip - ip - ip NGUNNGG as the handkerchief comes away
...'Oh sooper dooper,' she says, 'think I'm catching a cold.'
You're catching the War and not the good War The Apocalypse War the bad real War World War 2. It's infecting you and I don't know how to keep it away. Oh Jess. Jessica. Don't leave me...
It was lucky that Roger Mexico had 2000 AD from forty years in the future or he may just have killed himself.
Elsewhere Slothrop comes to in episodes that fade in and out of sleep, measured and serene exchanges in Quaxxian, hands at his pulse, the broad green back of someone just leaving the room ... It's a white room, a perfect cube, though for a while he can't recognize cubes, walls, lying horizontal, anything too spatial. Only the certainty that he's been shot up with that Sodium Amytal. That feeling he knows almost as well as he knows all the words to The Ballad of Halo Jones.
He's on a cot, still in Rogue Trooper garb, talking helmet on the floor down next to the ditty talking bag of hash - oh-oh. Though it requires superhuman courage in the face of doubts whether or not he can really even move and whether Song of the Surfer still holds up well these days, he manages to flop over and check out that dope as well as those new progs he had got.
It was lucky that Slothrop had 2000 AD from fifty years in the future or the octopus stuff would have been a bigger drag than it already was. Twats.
Roger, you cunt.
You're a silly lady.
Holy fuck, a story from Roger that didn't read like the mental shittings of Mr.Ed with tourettes. I like it.
And that's definitely getting a vote Van.
Kerrin, we NEED one from you this month - two months without one, that's no good!
Quote from: Kerrin on 26 February, 2010, 07:38:07 AM
Holy fuck, a story from Roger that didn't read like the mental shittings of Mr.Ed with tourettes. I like it.
And that's definitely getting a vote Van.
Ehhh...were we reading the same story Kerrin?? Roger you bastard. I was sorta kinda getting that until about halfway through and then my brain just melted, just like that, all over the floor. What the fuck are you talking about?????!!!! :crazy:
And Kerrin - yay! (You got the cherry pie in the post, didn't you!) :lol:
Didn't understand most of Roger's, but loved the other two, particularly Anne's "strange tingle in the gusset"
Nitpicking pedantry alert - the Volgan invasion was 1999, 1990 was the flood.
Van Dom - Love it matey! Shouldn't it be Thirty years, not fifty though? matters not.
Roger - Still don't understand anything you write, but it was very poetic.
Quote from: emceehamster on 26 February, 2010, 11:18:09 AM
Van Dom - Love it matey! Shouldn't it be Thirty years, not fifty though? matters not.
No, sixty years, my idea is that its a current day Tharg returning from a trip home in 2010 when the malfunction happens. Had that in the little preamble at the start but had to cut it for the wordcount! Thanks for the kind words though!
There was an werror in mine that has been bugging me (and bugged Van Dom as well :P) so here is the corrected version.
FIVE HAVE FUN IN LONDON
It was a beautiful day on Kirrin Island, but then again it always seemed to be a beautiful day there, as long as there weren't any nasty types getting up to mischief. Anne and Dick were playing catch whilst Julian drank ginger beer. George and Timmy were off exploring, although heaven knew if there was any part of the island they hadn't yet become acquainted with. Suddenly, there was a commotion as George came running up.
"I say!" she shouted. "You must all come and look at what Timmy and I have found"
"Woof" said Timmy, as if in agreement, and they all followed obediently.
They caught up with George, who led them to the old ruined cottage. This certainly wasn't new, but they followed her in, only to find an eerie white light hovering in the living room.
"How queer," said Anne. "I wonder what it is."
"Look!" said George. She picked up a stick from the floor and threw it at the light. It simply disappeared like it had never even been there. As the four stood, mouths agape, Timmy did what dogs are supposed to do - he fetched the stick.
"Timmy!" shrieked George. "No!" But she was too late, and Timmy disappeared as well.
"Gosh!" Exclaimed Dick. "Whatever are we going to do?"
"We have to follow him," stated Julian in his most grown up voice (the one that always gave Anne a strange tingle in the gusset).
They all agreed and, linking arms, stepped into the light...
... and into a war zone.
The first thing they saw was Timmy, bleeding on the street.
"Sorry luv," said a deep, authoritative voice. "A stray Volgan round got him - but I got the Volg."
The big man looked very common indeed, and rather frightening with his steely eyes and smoking shotgun.
"Bill Savage," he said, extending his hand. "What the fuck are you kids doin' out on the streets?"
"I'm awfully sorry," said Julian, shaking the man's hand and nearly yelping in pain from the grip, "but we don't actually know where we are. We were on Kirrin Island and there was this light..."
"Volgan time tech," said Savage knowingly. "Been dragging up all sorts shouldn't be here. What year are you from?"
"N-Ninteen Forty six," stammered Ann.
"Well you're in 1990 now, kiddiewinks, and Britain's been invaded by the Volgs. Any of you use a shooter before?"
"I should say not!" exclaimed Julian, but George had other ideas.
"They killed my fuckin' DOG!" she snarled, picking up a pistol from a fallen Volg. "Let's get the bastards!"
"That's the spirit luv," said Savage. "What's yer name anyway?"
"Georgina," said George, "But I hate that name. Just call me, I dunno, Silk"
"Silk it is," grinned Savage. "Let's go and fuck up some Volgs."
As Savage and "Silk" scoooted off, Julian, Dick and Ann stood bemused.
They never even heard the mortar that blew them into tiny bits.
Bad show!
MC and VD, excelent start there chaps! Looks like this is gonna be a good un.
And Rog, gosh! That one kinda scanned, not quite the usual head-phuck that is your normal sort of story. Are you okay? You're not off your food or something? Maybe you should lie down for a bit with a damp copy of Revolver on your forehead. :D
I just had this idea in my head for ages glad to actually free it at last!
1977
A spaceship from the planet Quaxxann landed in the centre of London and changed its shape into a building known as kings reach tower. The pilot of the ship was a being known as Tharg. I had to put a stop to this filth. I used the wastes and travelled back in time to deal with the deviants before it spread any further.
"Quaequam Blag!" shouted the filth peddler and sicced his pathetic robotic minions on me. All was for naught if the robots would not work for me then they are as bad as the extra-terrestrial. Therefore I turned them to scrap with my own weaponry.
The creature known as tharg tried to attack me with some bizarre form of arcanery known as "Rigellian Hotshot" but If I can handle attacks from my own nemesis then this green Dastard has no chance of hurting me.
Begging for his life he offered my anything to spare him from the vats, however he does not realise that I do not deal with the Deviants and after chanting my mantra I lopped his head off and held it high for the surviving tin cans to see.
Happy that the future will now be free of the disgusting filth known as 2000ad I made the Mills droid start again by making a comic in my image. "But what of the suits upstairs?" he asked pleadingly and all I said in reply to him is "Then I shall return and deal with them too...."
2010
David Page, Grand priest of the Necropolis black museum speaks to his enrapt audience
And that is the secret origin of Torque in as told by its founder our Grand master Tomás de Torquemada. Now we move on to the secret origin of Americas bill of rights which states that slavery is fine as long as said slaves are of earth origin. After that talk we will speak of the grandmasters time in the 1960s where free love is fine "Do it for Woodstock! Do it with zeal! Anyone having truck with an extra-terrestrial goes into the vats!"
Thus was the wisdom of the eternal Torquemada empire!
Be pure, be vigilant, behave
Quote from: emceehamster on 26 February, 2010, 01:04:16 PM
There was an werror in mine that has been bugging me (and bugged Van Dom as well :P) so here is the corrected version.
Still says 1990 instead of 1999 ..... :D
What was the "werror" that you corrected? (Can't be bothered doing a word-by-word comparison!)
george said the Volgs killed Timmy when it was Savage. In there write it was a volg bullet.
For some reason I was convinced it was Invasion 1990. Did that ever happen?
Quote from: emceehamster on 26 February, 2010, 08:59:52 PM
george said the Volgs killed Timmy when it was Savage. In there write it was a volg bullet.
For some reason I was convinced it was Invasion 1990. Did that ever happen?
You're thinking of "Disaster 1990" (which I can't find any trace of on Barney, oddly) the prequel set 9 years prior to Invasion, in which Britain is flooded when the icecaps were melted by a nuclear explosion. We saw Bill Savage first take up a shoot-ah (complete with rubber duck), not against Volgs but against evil Oxford professors, for some reason which eludes me. Probably 'cos they were ponces.
"five drown in Oxford" may have worked too... :D
Here ya go, Prog 126, wrongly credited as "Invasion" on Barney:
(http://i531.photobucket.com/albums/dd359/anaconda888/126.jpg)
Forgive me Victor.
DANTE's Blind Date.
Nicholi staggered against the staircase wall half spilling the flagon of Ale he was carrying and tried to recall instruction the lady had given him. Her room was where? The second tier or was it fifth tier above him. He chuckled softly too himself.
'Dante you old (hic) fox, you.'
Drunk but happy he looked about him. The walls of the Church loomed over him and he marvelled at how the architects of this most primitive age had constructed such a building that dominated the surrounding landscape. It was the first thing he noticed when he and the two Imperial Guardsman had 'landed' as they winked into this time stream from Romanov Palaces secret Laboratory. Nicholi by pure chance had foiled the Romanov's ultimate escape plan to travel back into the past and remake their future here on Earth.
He slew the troopers quickly and waited for rescue but he already knew that the amount of energy required to split the time stream was phenomenal and it might be many hours before he could return so he decided to venture to the nearest town. Perhaps there might be some interesting diversions.
It had a strange name. NOTRE DAME.
He saw HER immediately inside the tavern. She carried two enormous jugs before her-and two flagons of Ale as well. He had now trouble buying the locals favours. Gold from whatever age was a friend to all men and as the party turned merrier she soon sat on his lap and whispered her name in his ear.
Er, yes. Her name. What was it again? Emmra?, Tessa?
'Whatever!' smirked Nicholi and he found his way up the stairs and slipped inside the slightly ajar door. Inside the darkened room he saw a figure covered in a blanket. A musky, burnt smell assailed him but his lust ( and other things) were up and tearing off his clothes he flung himself onto the bed.
* * * * * *
He woke. Suffice to say he couldn't't quite remember what had taken place but it was obviously the most blinding sex ever in history. He turned to kiss his lover's mouth and -!
Screaming with shock and horror Nicholi leaped from the bed swords drawn. (oo, er missus!)
The bloated, fat face looked into his as the shambling horror farted it's large bulk off the bed to stand (God no) naked before him. It's drooling lips grinned insanely as it advanced with a lustful glint in it's eye.
Horrified Nicholi knew precisely what it wanted and suddenly in a flash he remembered the woman's name. Had he been that drunk to mistake this for her?
'ESMERALDA?!' he shouted sickened that he'd even touched the creature let alone...!
The horror shook it's head and came on arms outstretched.
'NNOO!' it slobbered, 'QUASIMODO!!'
:lol: :lol: :lol: :lol: :lol: :lol: :lol: :lol:
Nice one
isn't that the way of the world I do one and instead of getting comments it turns into five posts about a mistake from another one :lol:
loved the dante one by the by!
BATMAN/JUDGE DREDD XII: WEEVILS ABOVE US (489 words)
Idi Amin had gone back in time to the 1960s so he could be a bellhop at the Sterling Cooper advertising agency where an evil plot was being hatched. Idi had volunteered for it so he could help his old pal Fred West get into Heaven and out of Hell by doing a good deed like stopping an evil plot that was being hatched in history.
Don Draper came into the elevator where Idi was hopping and said hello and asked to be taken to the fifth floor. But then Roger Sterling demanded that he be let in the elevator. When they got out of the elevator the new person at Sterling Cooper who was also in the elevator said he would pay DeShawn (that was the codename Idi was using) him £20 if he could step on IdiShawn's shoes and possibly scuff them a bit. The new person at Sterling Cooper was actually Fred West in disguise and Idi had to use his angel telepathy - "You mean you will pay me $20" Fred West in disguise said "Here you go, as promised, twenty pounds". He then hit Idi in the arm twenty times as he really meant he was going to hit him in the arm twenty times as "pounds" was actually a euphamism for "punches". Don Draper and Roger Stirling were both impressed. "That was a really funny joke that you just told, you could go far as an advertising maker. I guess and guess on behalf of Don Draper that that is why you are here. This is an advertising agency after all."
Suddenly it hit Idi that the evil plot that was being hatched was Fred West's attempt at getting into Heaven by faking doing a good deed. It hit him as he realized that Fred hadn't changed. The evidence was that Fred had used this time-travelling trip as an excuse to try and make history by inventing the "I'll give you five pounds as in punches not currency" joke but he was so insane and egomaniacal that he had made the amount twenty pounches because he wanted to be four times better than everyone else. Idi knew what he had to do. He kicked Fred in the balls and made him collapse on the ground crying like a girl who has a cunt instead of a penis. Then he snapped Fred's neck and used an angel portal to go back to Heaven. He was a bit sad that Fred couldn't have changed his ways and had ended up back in Hell but he was also satisfied that an evil plot to destroy Heaven by using sleeper agents had been foiled. He went to his house where he had sex with a load of white women all afternoon and then he went on the internet for a few hours whilst having reruns of Bernard's Watch on in the background before he went to bed.
Back on the meths, Roger..?
Not a lot of 2000AD references in that one.
Or sense...
or coherant narrative...
Nice swearing though :D
It was a Saturday night after the pubs had shut ;)
Quote from: COMMANDO FORCES on 28 February, 2010, 02:43:37 AM
It was a Saturday night after the pubs had shut ;)
Considering that, the punctuation etc is superb.
Roger's Batman/Judge Dredd stories started with the beginning of the comp, so they've become sort of a...tradition.
Also guys, the way I've interpreted Lady F's theme, we don't so much as have to have a time traveling device as just place 2000AD characters in the past. Alternate histories and all that. Thought I'd mention that, as...well, that how I've done my two stories.
Nice pre-emptive catch there locusts!!! :lol:
All I can say, gentlemen, is BLIMEY!
Having been away from t'interweb for a few days, I return to find a flurry of tales ranging from the sublime to the laugh out loud. Way too many riches for a humble laydee. The literary equivalent of an ambassador's party...
Anyhoo. I am now terrified and anxious and all the rest as I have No Ideas Whatsoever for my own theme.
I'm also crying due to my lack of a penis.
COMRADE TROFIM
They had fallen so very far, he and the other. A nightmare glimpse of eternity until he met the singularity and became one with it. Then he was released and the other continued to fall.
"Comrade Stalin?"
"Comrade Trofim, enter. Petrov, bring us tea and vodka."
Stalin notes the cold level look Trofim gives Petrov. The look a man might give a side of beef when deciding how best to butcher it.
"You do not approve of Petrov, comrade?"
" He thinks only of lining his pockets and servicing his fat mistress."
Stalin shrugs, "You will find me a replacement then. To business, the red list?"
Trofim slides a single sheet of paper across the desk. Columns of names, close typed in black, many crossed out in red. Stalin raises his brows, peers at Trofim. "Krushchev and Brezhnev but not Beria?"
"A traitor and his lapdog comrade, they will betray the revolution." Trofim leans forward in his chair, one fist clenched. " We did not achieve enough in the Great Purge, that must be put right."
"And Beria?"
"He shows promise. He lives. For now."
Stalin stares at Trofim, the Hero of Stalingrad, the Kursk Bear, his most able captain. He recalls how he appeared fom nowhere during the purges of 1937. A minor party officer burning with revolutionary zeal, white hot and merciless, like one of the old Bolsheviks.
"So to the front. We will be in Berlin by the turn of the year?"
"As I promised, Comrade Stalin."
"Molotov informs me that since Hitler's death the Germans are willing to sue for peace. We should accept this offer?"
"Only once they are all dead."
Stalin has seen the reports from Trofim's divisions. German children nailed living to the front of Soviet tanks, men slit open, sawed apart in front of thier comrades. The purges in the ranks. There have been no German prisoners for many months.
There is a light in Trofim's eyes now, lambent and feral. He leans closer. "We do not stop at Germany. The west is weak."
"And what cost in Russian lives, Trofim?"
"Does the anvil feel the hammer? Does the forge care for the coal in the furnace? If you would sacrafice one then why not one million?"
"We will speak of this again comrade. Leave me now."
Stalin turns once more to the speech Trofim has written for him for the approaching October.
"I exhort you all to be pure to our revolutionary ideas, to be vigilant in our defence of the motherland and to behave as true Soviet citizens..."
As Torquemada leaves, he feels the singularity burning inside him, a point in space where anything is possible. The seed for a new Termight.
And if Stalin failed him, there were so many more in this century, time without end.
Ha Dounrey, another excellent tale! Great stuff!
That's a blinder Dounreay. Well done sir.
Thanks for the kind words people, they're much appreciated.
The singularity idea is of course, not fiction. Simon Cowell, Bill Gates, Gordon Broon and a host of other rabid over-achievers intent on ruining the present for us sofa bound tea drinkers have them fitted...
Is anyone who plans to enter in the comp going to Hi-Ex? If so, and you feel you'll need a few extra days to bang out a yarn or two, PM me and I can extend the comp by a few days. Thanks!
Nice work Dounreay. Enjoyed that with my morning tea! (MMMM, tea and communists, nice.....)
I'LL NEVER HURT THE ONES I LOVE MOST (467 words)
[spoiler]
Goddamnit, that shitting snatch weasel Tharg rejected my script and the art samples I sent in. The Air Mail from here in New York to England cost a fortune and it's money I could have done without losing since I was fired from my job as an Air Traffic Controller by Reagan. I am at least seventeen dollars short of presenting a more than decent meal to myself. I am so disenfranchised. I think I'll just sit around watching Dallas and Moonlighting all day in my legwarmers while listening to Cyndi Lauper.
"Paul Stencog said this to his friend Irvine Stendog who was preparing his act for the open mic night at CBGB's where The Velvet Underground, Television and Africa Bambarter were doing a triple bill. He was at least one new song away from having a full setlist. Stendog waxed cyclical"
It's because we are not from the UK that the fictional character Tharg and not Pat Mills, Kelvin Gostnell, Steve MacManus, Richard Burton, Alan McKenzie, John Tomlinson, David Bishop, Andy Diggle or Matt Smith rejected your submissions because you are not from the UK. I hate the fictional character Tharg and I hate the UK and I hate 2000 AD. I would like to use tfcTharg's brain as a cumrag. I would like to pump ceaseless amounts of my virtuous dicksnot into his expiated grey matter until it is so much
Im tayking a break becores I carntthink of a similie crunch in ice cream
Sponge. Who does that shitcrotch think he is, the fucking mouldcummer?.
"Stencog said" These epimound swears are becoming boring.
"What Stencog should do is create his own anthology comic and accept submissions from the general public who want to be comic creators. He should receive submissions, appreciate their efforts, print them and thus elevate his contributors. He created a poster to advertise his needs for contributors. It said, We Want To RAPE You!"
"Stendog realised he wanted to create comic art as well as make hip-hop. But he could not draw."
I cannot draw but I am excellent at rapping. You may think this is a stream of consciousness and you would be right. I make a conscious decision to include something. Our magazine 2000 CE will be a cassette. I will describe all of the pictures in the form of a rap. I will combine rap with art, being a rapper and an artist. I will be a rapist."
This was where he had to go back and embellish.
They never actually got round to creating 3000 CE because of entropy or apathy. Stendog decided to go into Harlem one day where he was attacked by a buggerist and murdered. Stencog got a job back and ambled through life until he died on 9/11 at the age of 48.
[/spoiler]
Mod edit: Spoilered for the faint of heart. Roger you're a sick little puppy.
A milestone of a story, Roger. Quiet, underestimated genius, unmatched similie and a deep undercurrent of unbridled passion.
Excuse me whilst I wipe away a tear...
It ain't funny anymore, Rog.
Whatever.
Quote from: Roger Godpleton on 07 March, 2010, 10:24:19 PM
words
This has to be one of the most deliciously vile introspective ironic pieces I've read for a while. It left me feeling dirty.
As for the offence it evidently carries, am I not "getting" something?
Help! :-\
Quote from: VinceBot on 08 March, 2010, 02:22:41 PM
Quote from: Roger Godpleton on 07 March, 2010, 10:24:19 PM
words
This has to be one of the most deliciously vile introspective ironic pieces I've read for a while. It left me feeling dirty.
As for the offence it evidently carries, am I not "getting" something?
The only offence is to literature, and possibly humanity in general.
It's like a rollercoaster in word format.
WTF?
You tell me, you wrote it. It's like the piccaso of stories.
Who actually moderated it? It's about the creative process from a somewhat solipstic standpoint.
See, i definitely got that... what was it again?
CENSORSHIP! CENSORSHIP! CENSORSHIP!
There were a few reports so I added the spoiler tags, but I didn't feel it was rule breaking in any way so no reason to delete it.
I think spoiler tags is as far as I go with censorship. Some people are a bit delicate, is all.
Personally, I enjoyed it.
Concerning Lavender Lightning. (521W)
Dear René,
With my husband away, I have nobody with whom to discourse upon the events of this night and so I set down this tale of true and marvellous events as much for my own peace of mind as for your enlightenment.
My mind was spinning with the ghost stories we had been telling a few days previously and I had determined to pen some supernatural tale myself. What that story was to be, I had no notion. The rest of my companions left the villa overlooking Lake Léman for the Alps and I remained behind to construct my story. Yet as I pursued ideas fantastical and supernatural, the farther they fled from my pen tip.
Yet as I gazed out across the night-darkened Lake, a strange cloud descended over the stars and turned the moon to ink. Lightning of a kind I have not previously experienced, lavender in hue and silent, played and rove the sky and danced upon the face of the death-black waters. And from this lightning, whether this can be believed as real or dismissed as a mere writer's waking dream, a creature emerged on the jetty of the villa.
Fearful and yet entranced, I recovered one of my husband's duelling pistols and, not knowing or mindful whether it be loaded or no, crept from the villa and onto the jetty where the horrid thing squat. It looked at me, René, with eyes not of this world. Its teeth were too many, its mouth too wide, its form more akin to an ape than a man – and it snarled and howled and drooled as though it were a wolf and I a suckling lamb. I found, then, that the pistol was not loaded and its paltry click was, in my jellied mind, perceived to be the last sound my mortal ears should ever convey to my brain.
At the very instant of my last moment on Earth, the lavender lightning flashed and roiled once more and spewed forth a man. A man, I call him, for surely man he was – but of no species I know. Huge, he was, and misshaped; yet handsome in a Hellish way. He carried in his fist a musket the like of which I have never seen and from this ugly weapon erupted such a blast as to reduce my attacker to mist.
"What was that thing?" I asked this new marvel, who had no interest in me.
Looking at me, as if for the first time, he replied, "A cruel experiment in energy and time. Dead now. Pay it no heed."
This said, he activated some small device about his person and the lightning returned to engulf him and the horrid corpse of my attacker. I called out to him for his name and, as his physicality shimmered and rippled into nothingness, one word echoed over the waters of the lake.
"Kano," he said.
It is hours later, now, and I finally have my story. Percy, I believe, will be enamoured with my work as inspired by my Promethean saviour.
Your friend,
Mary Shelley,
Geneva,
1818
Brilliant one the legendary shark! :)
Nice. :D
Bravo Sharky.
You stole my shtick.
Quote from: Roger Godpleton on 14 March, 2010, 08:00:25 PM
You stole my shtick.
that's what sean Connery said when someone stole his stick.
Thanks for the kid words, guys.
Just finished reading the others and it is, again, a strong field.
Very nice work, Shark. Very nice indeedy :-)
With apologies to the Legendary Shark :D
And probably anyone Scottish :P
Concerning Skiffy, Bawbies an all that Shite
My Dearest Alan,
How ye doin', ye festering wee bawbag ye?
Remember that wee skiffy comic lord God almighty DC Thomson was on aboot? Aye, ah'm sure ye do, so how aboot this un then:
Last night, I was up an aboot, pacin' my cell as ah will, tryin' not tae ram ma face intae the walls in frustration, when ah had a vision. Fuckin' nearly shat maself, so ah did. Mind, this was nae long legged beastie or nonesuch, it was a fella! Ah know what ye're thinking', Grantie, so wash out that filthy cesspit ye call a mind. It was no like my other visions, cos this un had clothes on an' everything, and he was no erect or nothing. Ah'm, fuckin' cured, I told ye that last time.
Anyway, this fella must have been six and a half foot, built like a brick shitehouse he was. He was wearing this skintight jumpsuit thingummajig, but it must been quite thick, as ah couldnae see his nips or balls or nothing. He had a big shieldy badge on, an' it said "Dredd" on it. Spelt like that, an all, not like that coloured fella who does the silly songs. Heh, I love that "Big Seven", reminds me of bein' told nursery rhymes on ma nanna's knee, so it does.... Ah'm ramblin again, must be the medication. Anyway, he also had a massive helmet, all shiny like, and I couldnae help staring at it.
Aw, ah've just read that last bit back and it's no meant to sound all gay and shite. I mean he had a helmet on his bonce, like a motorbike fella. Ye could see his chin, mind, and fuck me it was massive, but flat like he'd bin chasin' parked cars or sommat.
He just stood there, with an electric glow round him, whilst I tried not to crap me kecks. Then he talks to thin air, sayin' "Control, we have an error on the time jump." Then, to me: "What year is this, creep?". So I tells him it's 1976. "Forward fifty years control," he says. "And this time get it right. Dredd out".
Then he started fizzin' an' cracklin' an' he was gone again. It was like a fuckin' epiphany, Al. This wee comic is gonnae be massive, and Ahm gonnae use that scunner in it every fuckin' week. We'll call him "The Mighty Dredd" and he can be editor. Bettr than your stupid fuckin' "Tharg" idea anyways.
See ya, and get ready to count the bawbies.
John Wagner
Blairgowrie Home for Heid The Baws
August 1976
Ha! Brilliant.
Hamster, that is superb!
From an idea by Charlie Brooker...
Time To Leave
Megan stood, panting, the bloody knife still in her hand. At her feet lay the body of a salesman, surrounded by his own blood. She hadn't even meant to do it, the urge had just come upon her and the next thing she knew she was a murderer.
The Judges would throw away the key.
Just then, her palm phone rang. Reflexively, she put her thumb to her ear.
"Hello?" she said, her voice a little shaky.
"Hello Megan," said a calm, male voice. "Have you just killed a man?"
"W-what?" she stammered. "I... I..."
"We thought so. I assume you are not keen on spending the rest of your life in a cube."
"...no..." she said in a small voice.
"Well this is your lucky day, Megan. Leave your home and outside you will find a small van. Climb into the back and all will be explained."
"Do I bring..."
"Bring nothing,. Just yourself and the no doubt bloodstained clothes you are in. Don't fret - we will sort everything out."
Five minutes later, Megan was in the back of the aforementioned van,. There were no windows, but it was comfortably fiited out. Her mystery caller, "Mister Fixit" was opposite.
"Let me explain, Megan," he said. "Myself and my partners are in communications and that sort of thing. Put simply, we know whet everyone is doing at any time, because whenever you get that feeling you are being watched it's most likely us that are doing the watching."
"You bugged my house?" said Megan.
"Not at all. We know what you do in there, because like most citizens you are permanently connected to the citywide net. We knoe what you watch, who you talk to, everything. Of course, the Judges know this as well, but they don't have PreCOG"
"Precog?"
"Predictive Computations Of Grimness. Poor name, but we wanted a cool acronym. We can accurately predict when a citizen is going to snap and kill, based on their daily habits and personality. Today was your day."
"What are you going to do?"
"We're going to help you, of course."
"How?"
"Well, the Judges will certainly catch you if you stick around, so we are going to time jump you into the past where we have set up a new life and identity for you. Easy."
"But what about my life here?"
"It's over, I'm afraid," said Mr Fixit in a level voice. "You stay, you get cubed. Now if you'll just sign over all your earthly possessions here we'll get you sorted out."
With no better options at hand, Megan signed, leaving the poor salesman's blood on the pen.
Within hours she was stood in the TimeWarp chamber, clad in strange clothes, with a new name and history burned into her brain. All the way back to 1960, where the Judges would never find her. She could start all over, and escape the killer she had become. Manchester 1960, her new home, and Moira Hindley, her new name...
Gulp. Following another masterwork from the Hamster, here's a small offering from the Lady...
---
His dead bones felt no pain as he landed heavily in the mud.
Defeated by the Judges of the future, he had returned to judge the human race of a different time and place.
He surveyed the scene around him. Carnage, destruction; he had never seen the like here before. It was almost like a homecoming. Bodies lay sprawled in the mud, clothes filthy, limbs askew, unconscious maybe dead in puddles between great fields of tarpaulin.
Death walked among them, moving towards a strange booming noise. As he grew closer, there were more people alive, the tarpaulins grew sturdier and more colourful, there was movement, some sort of ritualistic dancing.
Two half-clad young men slid by in the mud. "Gl-a-a-a-a-st-o-on-bury-y-y-y-y!!"
This must be a primitive time, Death considered, mud and rain and shamanistic pursuits. A strange and primitive time.
He approached a grand blue tarpaulin. The memory of music made him realise this was not a battle zone, this was enjoyment. And enjoyment must be quashed. Working through the tent, he stopped beside each gyrating figure and whispered "My name iss Death, I have come to judge you," before feeling through their ribcages and finding his fingerbones in their still pulsating hearts.
Soon the tent was more dead than alive. Figures collapsed to the ground; ten, twenty, a hundred, before the heady sensation of panic took over. They fled.
Smiling, Death continued on his journey. He climbed to the entrance of a wheeled, wooden structure. "Want your tarot read?" A voice piped form inside.
Entering, he sat. His fortune teller laid out some cards, then paused. Slowly, she placed the remaining cards down in front of her.
"I cannot tell the fortune of the dead," she said firmly.
"Then you must join usss," Death replied. "It is easy," he replied. "I just stick my hand in and ssqueeze."
Death's exploration continued. He saw flames, beautiful and destructive. A young man threw sticks of fire to himself. Death drew nearer, reaching out to take one of the fire-sticks.
But something happened. Someone slipped. The fire-stick that Death sought to grasp flipped up in the air and came sharp-end down on Death's helmet, stunning him for long enough for his uniform to spark on fire. The fire spread, urged on by a sudden breeze. A crowd gathered, cheering on the man who had set himself on fire. More onlookers arrived as the flames died down and Death's form became a burnt hunk of meat and bone.
"BARBECUE!"
The revellers who had not seen the start of the conflagration enjoyed its end, ripping at the last few shreds of Death's flesh, feasting on him, calling for ketchup.
Death was gone – an ignominious end among the party in the mud. But Death always returns. Within moments, those who had eaten Death began to belch and fart and shit and spew, and Death returned in the air, in the stench, in the piles of crap and sick. Death sailed through the air, through the tents, through the stages, through the bars, sickening everyone he passed.
Death lived on. His work would still be done.
The last few stories are excellent! Great job guys!
There's still time to get your entries in - get writing people!
Desperate Times, Greener Grass
The time machine looked like a giant's head: two rectangular observation windows as eyes, a nose-like entrance, and the retractable walkway was the tongue. A giant's head, and Jake was to walk into its mouth.
Sometimes, he wondered if it was alive. It hissed and laughed when he was nearby. Tech-boys said it was hydraulics in the clamps, or the bass hum of field suppression. They even explained away how it seemed to move in the corner of his eye. Low-level tachyon distortion. It takes a few seconds for the light around the machine to reach your eyes, so your mind makes stuff up to fill in what it can't see.
Jake thought different. Damn thing's gonna eat me all up and it knows it.
"Scared?"
Jake stifled a small yelp and whirled around to face the speaker. Black suit, white shirt, spotless lab coat. Even now, in these times, the Director effortlessly managed to look smart.
"Of course I'm scared, Frank. I'm terrified. I don't want to go."
Frank looked anxious. "But there's no one else. Your profile is the most likely to succeed and..."
Jake held up a hand. "I said I don't want to go, not that I won't. I'm still going ahead. But I'd be mad if I wasn't afraid." He paused and turned back to the machine. "Do you think it'll work?"
"Still no consensus." Frank shrugged apologetically. "There's the paradox camp. By going back, we stop the reason for the whole project, so we never go back, so we end up here, then go back... yadda, yadda. Others think we'll fade away or that we'll carry on here, but in some parallel world everything works out."
There was silence for a moment, then it was broken by a metallic scream as a winch started to move away from the machine. It was ready.
Frank put a hand on the other man's shoulder. "Billions are dead. The Far East, most of Europe. They're all dead. These creatures... these judges... they don't stop. They don't negotiate."
Jake rubbed his forehead. "It was too good to be true, wasn't it? After centuries of conflict man achieved its goals. Peace. Prosperity. Happiness. Health. Then they came and replaced them. Death. Fear. Fire. Mortis." He shook himself. "I've never killed anyone. Will it work?"
Frank sighed. "I don't know. But we need someone who will invest in the technology needed to fight these creatures. Someone who will support the decades of research needed to defend ourselves. America's tech budgets were slashed after President Harvisson died. Vice President Carmichael spent it all on welfare. We need someone strong, a leader of the people."
"So if Carmichael is out the picture, who is Harvisson's VP? Who takes over when he dies?"
Frank pulled a data-pad from his pocket and checked the screen. "Far as we can figure out, the likely candidate is Booth. Robert Booth.
"Let's just hope he makes a good president."
Nice one Dr X
That's excellent Doc X. First paragraph especially.
nice one Dr X - you wrong-footed me not once but twice there as I thought I'd guessed the 'twist', which is pretty impressive in a sub-500 word story. Enigmatic indeed!
This is my first piece of writing that isn't school based so I'm open to criticism.
The Youths
It was a dank alleyway, the light was fading. A constant drip of water fell from the building above, there was an audible splash as the droplets of rain hit against metal. In the distance echoed the revving of an engine.
He heard voices. A commotion, an argument. He pulled himself out of the overflowing bin bags and got to his feet, lumbering slowly forward towards the sound.
Lampposts illuminated the small car park. About a half dozen of them were congregated next to some recycling bins, smoking and drinking from unlabeled bottles. Tinny music blared from a tiny speaker. Two of the members of the group were engaged in heated debate:
"Naw pal, geez us a fuckin' swally!"
"Ach fuck you, ya bawbag!"
As he approached, the argument was gathering momentum. One of the onlookers dropped his bottle, creating an alcoholic pool as he stared agog at the newcomer.
"Gweetings, chaps."
"Whit the fuck is that?" inquired one of the gang.
"It's some twat in a costume, ya bass."
"Fuckin' deck that prick"
"I'm sowwy?"
One youth picked up a bat that lay at his feet and advanced on Walter.
"Please chaps, can't we be wesolve this peacefully?"
The crowd cheered the youth - Walter gathered that his name was 'Jay-Bee', or some such nonsense - on as he readied the bat. Walter took a step back in fear. With a clank, the bat sunk into his chassis, came down again on his screen.
Walter fell.
"That'll fuckin' teach ya"
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then, a brief whirring of gears followed by an uneasy silence. Lights began to flicker slightly - the youths backed away warily. Walter got to his feet, something slightly different about his demeanor.
"That wasn't vewwy nice, was it?"
Walter's arm revolved once, twice - a swift movement brought it through Jay-Bee's ribcage. The greasy teen looked down in shock at the harsh metal protruding from his chest, blood seeping from the wound. Walter jerked his arm out, taking the heart in his steely grip. Walter paid no heed to the blood which covered him, merely turning his attention to the others. They were frozen with fear. A clean cut through the leg brought one to the ground, causing cries of fear and pain. As Walter knelt down to finish off the boy, his friends sought escape. It was useless; a bright light from Walter's chest melted flesh and bone, leaving only outlines on the wall.
"Now, where were we?"
With surgical precision, Walter removed the eye of the boy cowering in front of him, taking care not to sever the optic nerve. He ignored the pleas for mercy - so different from the jeering laughter of only minutes before. Turning the eye back on its owner, he tightened his grip on the boy's neck with his other hand, slowly crushing the windpipe until he felt his victim go limp.
Walter's HUD read "0006". He was proud with the start he had made.
Holy Smokes!
I haven't been around much for a few days and it looks like I have a lot of reading to catch up on!!!! Yowzers!!!!! :D
The True Historie of Mary Queen of ScotsThen one of the executioners, pulling off her garters, espied her little dog which was crept under her cloths, which could not be gotten forth by force, yet afterward would not depart from the dead corpse.Robert Wynkfield
A lifetime had come to this. A lifetime of rivalry, envy, kinship, bitterness. A lifetime which could have been so different.
Elizabeth, strong, bold, a woman in a man's world, outsoldiering the soldiers, outpoliticking the politicians, outscheming the schemers.
Mary, her cousin, her friend, her nemesis. Gentle, impetuous, ruled by the heart. She had made her mistakes, surely, but at least she had made decisions when the need came. Where Elizabeth had held back from marriage, Mary had thrown herself into it. Where Elizabeth conducted her affairs behind closed doors, Mary lived and loved in public.
Their rivalry had ebbed and flowed across the years, regular and eternal as the tide. For each wave of suspicion, a wave of understanding. For each accusation of treachery, an expression of cousinly affection. An uncomfortable truce emerged; Mary's imprisonment became the terms around which the truce was built. She would live, in some comfort but in isolation and confinement; Elizabeth would rule, secure, no blood on her hands.
Finally after some two decades of Mary's imprisonment, the unequal balance came to an end. Speculation at court, letters implicating Mary in another plot, another rumour of treason; the weight of evidence grew ever heavier. At last, Elizabeth could wait no longer.
Mary's arrest was swift, her trial efficient, the outcome inevitable. Brought for execution, patiently, carefully, her servants helped her to the scaffold; they removed her robe, stripped her down to a plain red dress, a foreshadowing of the blood that was to come.
Kneeling, Mary held her breath as she waited for the cold on her bare flesh. Calmly, she said "Into your hands, O Lord." The slow intonations of the priest continued beside her. "Into your hands, O Lord," she repeated. The eyes of the gathered crowd followed the blade arcing up above the executioner's shoulders. "Into your hands, O Lord."
Down, down, fell the blade. A deep ravine of flesh and blood appeared across the back of her neck. Not enough to kill her. The crowd winced. The blade rose and fell again. Mary's head tumbled to the wooden stage below. Blood came. His work done, the executioner bent and lifted Mary's head by the hair. There was a gasp as her hair came away, revealing her hairless scalp beneath.
Another gasp, verging on a scream as her headless body twitched. Was she come back to life so quickly, to bring yet more anxiety to Elizabeth, in death as in life? From beneath the billow of her skirts, first a paw, then a strange fleshy nose, then a dark furred limb appeared. Dark dark eyes and long tall ears emerged. Some said it was a dog, others a small bear, some said it was like nothing they had seen on earth. It scrambled out from under Mary's skirts, down the steps to the ground where it picked up and started to gnaw on a small rock.....
Nice one, Lady F!
Any more in before the deadline next week? Some real nice yarns this month - voting will be tough!
Sigh. Couldn't get to Hi-Ex. Again. Have to console meself with a story.
PARTING SHOTS
Finigan Sinister and Kid Fony, the two most wanted outlaws in the history of the West. And in all the trains and banks they robbed, they never shot no-one [Citation needed]. This made our latter day Robin Hoods very popular [Weasel words]. That is, with everyone but the railroads and the banks.
And this is Tombstone, it's Tuesday October 26 1881 and Finigan Sinister turns to Ramone Dexter and says "FUUUUUNNNNTTT. Funt,funt,funt. Funtin' funtin', funtin' FUUUNNNTTT."
"Finny, get a grip, you'll burst something, people are staring." Ramone trades a shit eating grin for a withering look from a dour, old matriarch. "Heh, heh, sorry mam, my friend , he is loco," he cringes, twirling a finger at his temple.
"Ramone, we are in the funtin' old West instead of alternate Downlode, where the dimension jump should have sent us. I am very far from getting a funtin' grip."
"Look Finny, lets go get a drink and figure things out."
History records these two legends of the West walking into a saloon on Fremont street, ordering two shots of whiskey, whereupon the Clanton gang set about them [Citation needed].
"Amigo! Two shots of whiskey."
A voice from the back of the room, drunk and heavy with trouble. "Hey greaser, Mexicans ain't allowed in here."
Trouble just picked the wrong day to go drinking. The day high muzzle velocity death walked in.
"He's not Mexican, he's Span-"
"Well Goddamn, a Mexican AND a paddy."
No words pass between the two men at the bar. A glance and a slight nod to each other.
The barkeep, now fearing for his skin and his bar mirror, urgently whispers "Boys, you don't mess with Ike Clanton and his gang."
Dexter leans on the bar. "Way, way, way too late for that amigo," he smiles at the barman.
Sinister screws a smoke into his mouth and fires it up, casually challenges, "Come and have a go if you think you're hard enough. Cocksucker."
"Paddy bastard. Dr-"
BAM. BAM,BAM. BAM.
Sinister luxuriously blows out a stream of smoke that mingles with the gun smoke from Ray's automatic.
"You missed one."
"Oh yeah." BAM. "These guys can't shoot for shit."
A hard, don't fuck with me voice cuts through the smoke and the silence.
"Somebody gonna explain this?"
"Mi, mi, mi Marshal Earp! It was self defence," the barkeep manages to stutter. It wasn't but the bar tender has been in the trade a long time.
Sinister turns to the newcomer. The stone killer and the lawman regard each other coldly, then something unspoken passes between them. Enough respect, not today.
Earp speaks again, "The stage leaves in two hours, down the street by the OK Corral. Be on it." Then he turns and leaves.
Oooohhh... time for one more silly one before we close!
Along Came A Spider
"Oh, peachy!" exclaimed Peter Parker. "You'd think I'd be used to this sort of thing by now, but it never gets old."
'This sort of thing' was dropping from a great height onto a hard surface, after being put there by yet another whacked out super villain with a thing about spiders. Did we not mention that Peter Parker is also known as the Spectacular, Amazing and original Spider-Man? Well, he is.
THWIP!
Spidey quickly slowed his decent by attaching a handy web to a nearby building, a building way higher than any he'd seen before. "Must be the future," he said to himself. "At least they might be able to get me back."
The latest nutjob with a grudge was The Time Twister, who had a nasty little ray gun that transported the target to a random point in time. Very tricky, and very careless of Spidey to let himself get caught, what with his spider sense and all. Right now, though, he had other things to think about.
"There's always an alley," he said as he eased himself to the ground in such a place. "Now I've just gotta figure out how to get back to 2009 and defeat The Time Twister."
"Hold it, creep!" boomed a voice, and he turned to see a very imposing figure approach, holding a gun big enough to scare a porn star. The helmet looked like he was born wearing it, and the name on the badge was Dredd.
Spidey held it. Well, you would.
"What's up... officer?" he ventured. "No need for the gun, fella, I'm one of the good guys."
"Oh yeah?" sneered Dredd. "You don't look like a judge to me."
"Judge?" Why was the future always so confusing? "No, I'm not a judge. I'm... well, I'm Spider-Man!"
"Spiderman?"
"No, with a hyphen. Spider-Man"
Dredd was not impressed. "Cut the wisecracks, creep. Spider-Man huh?" You could actually hear the hypen, groaning under the weight of Judge trained sarcasm. "So what? You a mutant?"
"Not again," groaned Spidey. "I'm getting fed up of explaining this one. I'm not a mutant, I have never been a mutant, although I may have gotten frisky with one or two over the years, but none of the freaky ones - even a Spider-Man has standards!"
"So what does a Spider-Man do?" asked Dredd.
"Whatever a spider can, of course! Hey - there's a song in that..."
"Can it creep," Dredd barked, raising his lawgiver. "I've got no time for costumed criminals."
"Woah!" yelped Spidey. "No criminals here - I'm on your side. I fight crime, not commit it."
"I hate costumed vigilantes even more," said Dredd in a menacing voice. "You're going to the cubes."
"Not me!" said Spidey, launching into the air. "Seeya later, Dreddy, or never if I can help it."
THWIP! Went Spidey. BLAMMO! Went the lawgiver.
Spider reflexes against judge training? No contest.
"Dredd to control. One vigilante for the meat wagon."
Stan Lee's gonna have a fit...
Oh, and when you put up the entries could you change the date on my Famous Five one from 1990 to 1999 please!
Nice work, Hamster, very nice!
Quote from: emceehamster on 31 March, 2010, 09:26:20 PM
Oh, and when you put up the entries could you change the date on my Famous Five one from 1990 to 1999 please!
You've got it, sir!
This is the day - in just over 11 hours, the space-time continuum will be back in its proper order and the comp will stop at the present day. Take your last hops across the centuries, visit those pasts in a hurry, pen your yarn before time runs out!
Great! I fell so far behind with these that I've been waiting for the voting thread to get stuck in and have a good read. This will work out nicely as we are in work on Good Friday despite the fact that none of our customers are...so I'll be able to pass the time with a few good short stories tomorrow, yay!
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaall right time troopers, set your chronometers to April 1st, 2010 18:13. The comp is now closed.
Excellent job to everyone!
I will sort the entries and have the voting thread open shortly (meaning sometime before tomorrow).
Have no fear, writers - I'm organizing the voting thread right now...will be up and running shortly.
Is this where you start to regret volunteering to take over? ;-)