Posted: Jan 18th '09, 08:10
{by the pretty committee}
Bridget sits before a mirror, methodically brushing his hair. Forrest paces the room, lost in gesticulatory agitation.
--I'm telling you, Beautiful, X doesn't have a patch on Omega. I've tripled the troopers and slapped on more S'pht'kr. I've multiplied the maps and lengthened the levels. I've supplemented the script and tacked on more text. I have enumerated ninety-nine new names for Marcus. As for Hathor, widowed W'rkncacnter, I've
--Please stop, Bridget interjects. And I rather doubt that's how it's pronounced.
--Oh. How then? Wark-a-kink-actor?
--Cute.
--Work-and-caulk-inter?
--Not cool.
--Then how, hm?
Bridget pauses, smiles and winks at his reflection. Really, I couldn't say, but in my arms he was always Darren
{somewhere in the heavens}
Bemused primal chaos awakens from aeon-long slumber, his true name breathed aloud. The community was long since ruined. What was left to do?
Surely there would be new communities; the diluted were incorrigible. So many posts to read; It would take time. The timeless one would take that time, the time to read through every screed, and having read, he would strategically, intentionally, devise a post that would finally piss everyone off.
The W'rkncacnter chuckles within the solar sea, undulating in the plasma as he calculates infinitys.
[...]10110010001010100001011001010101000101011111010101001100101010110101010
0101001010101000101011110010101010010101010101001010101010111000101011110012
{whatever I please}
Dr. Bolton walks alone along the shore, a funereal urn in his hands. Seawater splashes his trousers as he empties its contents, a fine gray powder, into the bay. Never one given to sentiment, the doctor takes aim at a distant buoy and casts vessel-vacant at bobbin-bobbing. He misses: just a little to the right. Bolton shrugs.
--So long, Karuma.
Turning, the doctor surveys the distant olmec, his birthright, and thinks on the business at hand as he leaves the waves behind.
I will build myself a copper tower
With four ways out and no way in
But mine the glory; mine the power
{my own private thermoplyae}
--THE LORD is my shepherd; I shall not camp.
An aged maths professor sits quietly in a small chapel, the sole attendee at vespers. The celebrant elevates his palms in Orans; the cantor intones the benediction.
--THE LORD be with you (a pause) And also the JUICE.
The lecturer blinks as a memory long thought forgotten taps cheekily on the window pane of his cerebral chamber. There were so many that needed kicking. I kicked that they might 4GET, but did any mark the lesson? What did the bodhisattva merit for his compassion, save a sore foot?
[attachment=2385:sunyata.png]
{an alley, more aptly described as a laboratory}
Two men stand over a third's comatose body. The vertical pair wear the same shabby outfit, albeit in different colours. Tattered Black turns to Frayed White, cocks his head to one side, and quips.
--I can't place it, Raymond, but your jacket seems familiar, as if I'd seen it before in some dimly recollected dream.
Ray gives a crooked smile and pauses to light his thirtieth cigarette of the morning.
--Patrick, my dear old thing, I took it from your closet.
--Ah. Quite. I remember having one of those. A home, I mean.
--Indeed. But it seems we've been gifted with a fresh volunteer. Too many opioids, or not enough insulin, I'd wager.
--Heh. Too much MARARTHON, you mean; have a look in his wallet.
Casting the remnant of his Lucky Strike to the rats in the corner, Ray reaches down and withdraws a bit of rotting leather. His eyes run over the lines etched across the plastic within.
--Well! Naggy, poor sod. A few moments immersed in the harmony of the spheres will do him a spot of good.
Patrick sets to work with a razor, gently removing what remains of the man's hair. After affixing the device (a colander, soon to be wedded to a lemon battery by means of jumper cables) to the specimen's palpitating brainpan, he pauses.
--Eh, it's not quite cricket what you and I do. Wonder what he'll dream about.
--Rubbish, Ray rejoins, and completes the circuit
{uki's big date}
Brooder, bushy-bearded, picks his way along the remnant of a marble walk, his eyes resting upon the ruin, once a rambling house, that lies ahead. The roof has long since fallen in; a few coniferous boughs woven through the rafters offer but feeble resistance to elemental assaults. The door rests uneasy in its frame; at his knock it falls inward with a splintering crash, kicking up dust. A frightened, mewling cry rises from some unseen lower chamber. A pert little man is hanging a banner -MARARTHON 4EVAH- between two rotting beams. He whirls at the crash-but smiles broadly in recognition of his visitor.
--Mr. Smith. You came! Today is the twentieth anniversary; isn't it glorious!
--Please stop, Ukimalefu. All the others departed years ago. Why can't you let the kids return to their homes?
--Nonsense! The Pfhorums are their home. The Pfhorums are their family! And you and I, you and I are their 'parents.
Smith's gorge rises, but he forces composure.
--It's over, Uki. The Ruppe brothers have gone feral in the cellar, feeding on the spiders that scuttle 'neath the floorboards, chewing discarded bits of dubblbubbl that fall through the cracks. CryoS can't stop crying. Just look at $lave; has he uttered a word in the last three years? Has he even once moved from that spot?
$lave, decremented variable, emaciated mapper, sits before the rusted-out husk of a Quadra, his quivering hand dragging what was once a mouse in the same familiar patterns, connecting polygons that are not there, that will never be there. Uki comes to stand behind him, massaging the boy's withered frame.
--Marathon is forever! It will never die! Nova is coming; soon we will bask in its splendour.
Smith dies a little.
--I'm going now. I won't be bringing any more Alpha1 revisions.
--We don't need them! I've contracted my own developer, and he can't stop chattering about how awesome his new fully bump-mapped, 2.5plus0.5 true 3D rendering engine is going to be. Isn't that so, Mr. Cardigan?
Leaning in a corner is a makeshift skeleton of twigs, bound up with twine in crude mockery of the human form. A moth-eaten sweatervest is draped across two scraps of bark which serve as shoulders. Uki throws his voice, which takes on a nasal twang.
--You can't imagine just how fun it's gonna be, Tree-yama. The stickman sways slightly in a crosswind.
--Goodbye, Uki.
Enervated by the scene, Smith longs for his nest. Enraptured in soiled party-dress, Ukimalefu uplifts his voice in eternal refrain:
On Pfhor Prime, everything is fine
On Pfhor Prime, everything is fine
On Pfhor Prime, everything is fine
You've got your own $lave
And I've got mine
On Pfhor Prime, everything is fine
On Pfhor Prime, everything is fine
On Pfhor Prime, everything is fine
You've got your own $lave
And you've got mine
On Pfhor Prime everything is fine. Uki's eyes shimmer.
Deep within its lair with the pines overlooking a tree llama shudders, having no words
{for bourbon, apply within}
A young man sits at an oaken desk on which are a star-crowned pen and an empty bottle. The room is lit by a flickering CRT, upon which the hand of doom has written its mene mene in 10pt Courier New.
FROM: a huxley productions
TO: mr j g irons esq
RE: clique stories
thats boring irons
Stomped. All is quiet save the murmur of the boretower and the ticking of the dispassionate clock. Irons watches the bottle; the bottle watches Irons. The passing of an interminable period.
Finally there is the faint chittering of a magnetic storage drive, and with it, a shifting of pixels.
FROM: The Publishing Firm of Hot Sister, Sister, & Sister (unlimited)
TO: Our Dearest Jonathan
RE: Earth Mother 3
It is strong. But we'll need your signature on the contract.
Irons shuts his eyes.
Irons lochs
Bridget sits before a mirror, methodically brushing his hair. Forrest paces the room, lost in gesticulatory agitation.
--I'm telling you, Beautiful, X doesn't have a patch on Omega. I've tripled the troopers and slapped on more S'pht'kr. I've multiplied the maps and lengthened the levels. I've supplemented the script and tacked on more text. I have enumerated ninety-nine new names for Marcus. As for Hathor, widowed W'rkncacnter, I've
--Please stop, Bridget interjects. And I rather doubt that's how it's pronounced.
--Oh. How then? Wark-a-kink-actor?
--Cute.
--Work-and-caulk-inter?
--Not cool.
--Then how, hm?
Bridget pauses, smiles and winks at his reflection. Really, I couldn't say, but in my arms he was always Darren
{somewhere in the heavens}
Bemused primal chaos awakens from aeon-long slumber, his true name breathed aloud. The community was long since ruined. What was left to do?
Surely there would be new communities; the diluted were incorrigible. So many posts to read; It would take time. The timeless one would take that time, the time to read through every screed, and having read, he would strategically, intentionally, devise a post that would finally piss everyone off.
The W'rkncacnter chuckles within the solar sea, undulating in the plasma as he calculates infinitys.
[...]10110010001010100001011001010101000101011111010101001100101010110101010
0101001010101000101011110010101010010101010101001010101010111000101011110012
{whatever I please}
Dr. Bolton walks alone along the shore, a funereal urn in his hands. Seawater splashes his trousers as he empties its contents, a fine gray powder, into the bay. Never one given to sentiment, the doctor takes aim at a distant buoy and casts vessel-vacant at bobbin-bobbing. He misses: just a little to the right. Bolton shrugs.
--So long, Karuma.
Turning, the doctor surveys the distant olmec, his birthright, and thinks on the business at hand as he leaves the waves behind.
I will build myself a copper tower
With four ways out and no way in
But mine the glory; mine the power
{my own private thermoplyae}
--THE LORD is my shepherd; I shall not camp.
An aged maths professor sits quietly in a small chapel, the sole attendee at vespers. The celebrant elevates his palms in Orans; the cantor intones the benediction.
--THE LORD be with you (a pause) And also the JUICE.
The lecturer blinks as a memory long thought forgotten taps cheekily on the window pane of his cerebral chamber. There were so many that needed kicking. I kicked that they might 4GET, but did any mark the lesson? What did the bodhisattva merit for his compassion, save a sore foot?
[attachment=2385:sunyata.png]
{an alley, more aptly described as a laboratory}
Two men stand over a third's comatose body. The vertical pair wear the same shabby outfit, albeit in different colours. Tattered Black turns to Frayed White, cocks his head to one side, and quips.
--I can't place it, Raymond, but your jacket seems familiar, as if I'd seen it before in some dimly recollected dream.
Ray gives a crooked smile and pauses to light his thirtieth cigarette of the morning.
--Patrick, my dear old thing, I took it from your closet.
--Ah. Quite. I remember having one of those. A home, I mean.
--Indeed. But it seems we've been gifted with a fresh volunteer. Too many opioids, or not enough insulin, I'd wager.
--Heh. Too much MARARTHON, you mean; have a look in his wallet.
Casting the remnant of his Lucky Strike to the rats in the corner, Ray reaches down and withdraws a bit of rotting leather. His eyes run over the lines etched across the plastic within.
--Well! Naggy, poor sod. A few moments immersed in the harmony of the spheres will do him a spot of good.
Patrick sets to work with a razor, gently removing what remains of the man's hair. After affixing the device (a colander, soon to be wedded to a lemon battery by means of jumper cables) to the specimen's palpitating brainpan, he pauses.
--Eh, it's not quite cricket what you and I do. Wonder what he'll dream about.
--Rubbish, Ray rejoins, and completes the circuit
{uki's big date}
Brooder, bushy-bearded, picks his way along the remnant of a marble walk, his eyes resting upon the ruin, once a rambling house, that lies ahead. The roof has long since fallen in; a few coniferous boughs woven through the rafters offer but feeble resistance to elemental assaults. The door rests uneasy in its frame; at his knock it falls inward with a splintering crash, kicking up dust. A frightened, mewling cry rises from some unseen lower chamber. A pert little man is hanging a banner -MARARTHON 4EVAH- between two rotting beams. He whirls at the crash-but smiles broadly in recognition of his visitor.
--Mr. Smith. You came! Today is the twentieth anniversary; isn't it glorious!
--Please stop, Ukimalefu. All the others departed years ago. Why can't you let the kids return to their homes?
--Nonsense! The Pfhorums are their home. The Pfhorums are their family! And you and I, you and I are their 'parents.
Smith's gorge rises, but he forces composure.
--It's over, Uki. The Ruppe brothers have gone feral in the cellar, feeding on the spiders that scuttle 'neath the floorboards, chewing discarded bits of dubblbubbl that fall through the cracks. CryoS can't stop crying. Just look at $lave; has he uttered a word in the last three years? Has he even once moved from that spot?
$lave, decremented variable, emaciated mapper, sits before the rusted-out husk of a Quadra, his quivering hand dragging what was once a mouse in the same familiar patterns, connecting polygons that are not there, that will never be there. Uki comes to stand behind him, massaging the boy's withered frame.
--Marathon is forever! It will never die! Nova is coming; soon we will bask in its splendour.
Smith dies a little.
--I'm going now. I won't be bringing any more Alpha1 revisions.
--We don't need them! I've contracted my own developer, and he can't stop chattering about how awesome his new fully bump-mapped, 2.5plus0.5 true 3D rendering engine is going to be. Isn't that so, Mr. Cardigan?
Leaning in a corner is a makeshift skeleton of twigs, bound up with twine in crude mockery of the human form. A moth-eaten sweatervest is draped across two scraps of bark which serve as shoulders. Uki throws his voice, which takes on a nasal twang.
--You can't imagine just how fun it's gonna be, Tree-yama. The stickman sways slightly in a crosswind.
--Goodbye, Uki.
Enervated by the scene, Smith longs for his nest. Enraptured in soiled party-dress, Ukimalefu uplifts his voice in eternal refrain:
On Pfhor Prime, everything is fine
On Pfhor Prime, everything is fine
On Pfhor Prime, everything is fine
You've got your own $lave
And I've got mine
On Pfhor Prime, everything is fine
On Pfhor Prime, everything is fine
On Pfhor Prime, everything is fine
You've got your own $lave
And you've got mine
On Pfhor Prime everything is fine. Uki's eyes shimmer.
Deep within its lair with the pines overlooking a tree llama shudders, having no words
{for bourbon, apply within}
A young man sits at an oaken desk on which are a star-crowned pen and an empty bottle. The room is lit by a flickering CRT, upon which the hand of doom has written its mene mene in 10pt Courier New.
FROM: a huxley productions
TO: mr j g irons esq
RE: clique stories
thats boring irons
Stomped. All is quiet save the murmur of the boretower and the ticking of the dispassionate clock. Irons watches the bottle; the bottle watches Irons. The passing of an interminable period.
Finally there is the faint chittering of a magnetic storage drive, and with it, a shifting of pixels.
FROM: The Publishing Firm of Hot Sister, Sister, & Sister (unlimited)
TO: Our Dearest Jonathan
RE: Earth Mother 3
It is strong. But we'll need your signature on the contract.
Irons shuts his eyes.
Irons lochs
![[MOh]](./images/smilies/6.png "marathon"){kind=small}
