I put in my first bit from the Jace Family RP, describing who my character actually is, and got David Foster Wallace who wrote "Infinite Jest"
An oddly large slightly simple looking vaguely ethnic but blonde curly haired guy (what the fuck is up with that Mama Jace thats a lot of weird shit in one) sits at a desk in a shit room of a shit house typing a character sheet in on some shit website. It is shit. The character sheet not the guy, though he is shit too. His name is Julian but he goes by J because he thinks it sounds mysterious. His character sheet is full of ideas almost as stupid as that, tons of weebish tropes, but he's proud of it. What a shitlord. Story probably wont get off the ground anyway and if it does one of those asshole mods will probably just shut it down, but fuck it itll do. He doesnt have shit else to do right now and as shit as his character is he's kinda gettin in to it.
Julian thinks his character is wicked sick. Vaguely asian but not really because its a self insert and Julian has a savior complex. Really big sword. Super mysterious past. Probably watched his family die at the hands of some black and red scarred up bad ass dude he will fight later on on a mountain top or inside an active volcano or some shit; that wont be in the character sheet of course because he kinda knows its too fucking cliche to pass muster. Sneaky little shit this kid. Signing up to someone's Homebrewed Fantasy RP with a vaguely disguised anime character, really mostly just hoping to get his character laid. Like a lot, like a lot a lot. Figures maybe he can get some of these guys (no ladies i mean ladies definitely that) to do some erotic shit. Julian wants to do that but doesnt want to be a lady sonic or a male sonic or really any form of sonic but thats whats going around right now. wtf is wrong with people thats some weird shit. fucking hell.
I put in the next bit from that same RP, describing how my character imagines himself, and got Daniel DeFoe who wrote Robinson Crusoe.
The engine of vengeance that is my body pushes hot steam from every pore as I move effortlessly through the arena. I shift from kata to kata with such fluidity that even Bruce Lee-sama-san would bust a fat fear nut. The petals of a Prunnus Serrulata, or as the Anglos that infest this town call it "oh neat, Stacy take a picture of that Japanese Cherry Blossom!", fall about in my wake as if mimicking my steps in adoration. I have become the form without form, I am the water which retains a shape of it's own volition. I will not become as the vessel. I am my own. As I deftly move about, a million combat scenarios playing through my mind, I muse on what it is to be one such as I.
You see friend, the secrets of the masters are mine, were always mine. When these secrets, my secrets, were but nebulous inklings in the darkest recesses of their minds, even then, I am. They knew it not but their creations were never truly their own. My forebears have planted the seeds and only I have seen these so called "fucking gay ass cartoons and anime" for what they truly are. It is no surprise the feeble minds of these simpletons have not been able to ascertain the messages stitched between worlds, the true meanings were not meant for such as these. Only an awakened mind might see the truth behind these simple trappings, only one fearless enough to be as open as I might painstakingly break apart the very foundation of each of these tales into their component elements and reassemble them properly. The ephemeral lifespan of the human animal is woefully insufficient for such tasks. As such it was simultaneously tragic and inevitable that even the authors of these great works could not know the true purpose of their own magnum opuses. Call it a mercy just the same, that their infantile minds protected them from the darker terrors that too much introspection might have wrought upon their personages.
This Jace Family of Humanoids has been kind to accept me, but I wonder, if they knew the true beautiful horror that lives in their shoddily converted den would they be so hospitable? I find it most terribly unlikely. The human animal fears what it does not understand and there is so much it does not, NAY cannot, understand. If it had but the faintest of whiffs of my knowledge, of my potential, surely all would weep as one that they must live their fleeting lives as such flimsy things devoid of any lasting import. Why in this incarnation I could be anything on this planet they call Earth. I could do anything. To one as empowered as I all doors are open. The things that I desire time and consequence will bring to me. And yet, and yet there is one thing I desire now. One thing I need that eludes me still.
I put in a bit I wrote for a Warhammer 40K RP (one of my Halflings) and it said I write like Ernest Hemingway
Roald had never really been one for high society, but this was an opportunity he was loathe to muss up with his usual weaknesses. He had set about cleaning and pressing his best clothes and preparing his papers and the card the night before. All plans had been prepared. He would wake up well early in the morning, arrange himself just so, take command of his unruly hair, and show up to the Windsor Suite neigh unrecognizable as the miserable cur he was. It was a good plan.
It hadn't quite come out that way, he mused, as he hurried naked about his small room in a rush to get himself presentable. He'd gambled that a little drink would help him get to sleep early, but as it so often did a little drink opened his eyes to opportunities for debauchery. Plans were changed, promises made, asses pinched, and now with no time to fix himself up and arrange himself just so he did the next best thing; he jumped up onto the sink, stuck his head under the faucet, and drenched his head. Snagging a dirty shirt from the floor he pressed it against his head to dry and flatten his thick uncooperative Ratling hair then got that same shirt halfway buttoned up before realizing it was the wrong one.
A few minutes later he slipped out the window and hurried out onto the rooftops, no time to take the streets. He would be late, there was no helping it, but taking to the roofs might make him fashionably late rather than obnoxiously late. Fashionably late was still a thing a Rogue Trader would appreciate wasn't it? Sure it was. It would have to be. Taking the rooftop route allowed him to cut a straighter path and saved him vital minutes. As he neared the Windsor Suite he saw below him a meticulously dressed man in parade uniform speaking with some Arbites, he would serve as a useful distraction for Roald. While the metal armed man spoke with them Roald scampered across the rooftops in a low, even for him, stance to get nearer the doors to the Windsor and out of sight.
After he heard the man in the Imperial Guard uniform enter he checked once more to make sure the Arbites were looking the other way and climbed down. The heavy doors moved slowly as Roald pushed steadily against them, and as he entered the antechamber gave himself one finally round of adjusting. Dusting off his shirt, pulling the sleeves and legs down, adjusting his cloak so that it falls just so, and flexing his feet uncomfortable as they were in the dress boots. Finally Roald hurried in behind the man, Sargeant Gustave Boucher, and made his own much less professional introduction.
His eyes light up as he notes the food, the booze, and that other's have already began drinking. Rubbing his hands together eagerly he asks a vital question.
"What are we drinking?"
I put in a Character Sheet I made for a HomeBrewed Fantasy setting and it told me I write like Anne Rice.
Although his Father was a talented craftsman and a patient teacher Edrick had never really taken to the family business. For long years his Father had made the finest of weapons and equipment for the Crimson Eye and Phoenix Order and for long years he had showed Edrick each step in detail, but it never seemed to stick for him. On the rare occasion Edrick managed to pay attention to the long rather meticulous process he would come to the conclusion that he most certainly gives not a fuck about it. Edrick never enjoyed the detail work that separated a serviceable piece of equipment from an expertly crafted work of art. Edrick took more to the simple brute force aspects of it. Pounding metal ingots flat, heating them, folding again, pounding again, and then when the work was done he would take his pay and fine something or someone new to pound in one fashion or another.
From his mid-teens through his twenties Edrick lived in this way earning himself quite a reputation for better or worse, and mostly for the worse. Between drinking, fighting, and womanizing he found himself in trouble with the Crimson Eye on a fairly regular basis. Due to his contribution to his Father's business and his Father's businesses contribution to Bastion they generally took it easy on him. After a spirited beating he would generally be left with little worse than a broken nose. In time many of the Crimson Eye came to know him, some thinking of him disdainfully as an untouchable waste, others hoping he might turn his life around if only to carry on his Father's legacy and stop disgracing his name.
Not paying much attention to his Father's yammering on as he got deeper into the process of repairing a Ranger's sword one day a 30 year old Edrick was thinking only of a saucy red haired woman he had seen walking the streets. She seemed to have a certain exotic look about her and Edrick intended to get a closer look at it. Much closer. Wondering to himself what he might say to her the next time he saw her he was caught by surprise, turning quickly in reaction to a startled scream from Father. Thick smoke with a sheen to it had leapt up from the blade. Across the shop their eyes met in horror, Edrick paused only a moment before beginning to walk toward his Father but it was long enough.
Crimson Eye in the market place had heard the shout and turned to see, and the Crimson Eye knew at once exactly what they had seen and exactly what it meant for the Blacksmith and his shop. It had been his Father's poor luck that a bit of infected blood or flesh had been caught up in the metal. Perhaps in the pitting about the pommel, perhaps in the filigree along the blade, whatever was caught and where ever it was caught as the blade heated up the flesh had flashed up and set it's vapors into the air. Anyone in Bastion could tell you what must come next, it is inevitable. As the Crimson Eye advanced toward the shop Edrick eyed his Father's hammer, but before he could move toward it he met the gaze of one of the Crimson Eyes. He knew as plain as day, if he reached for the weapon they would surely be upon him. From there it all happened with an impossible speed. A brief apologetic look from his Father as he wiped the infected blood and smoke from his face, some brief indeterminate words from Crimson Eyes as they gathered about his Father, his Father dropping to his knees head held high, and then only blood and fire.
Before the embers of his Father and his Shop had died down Edrick found himself in a cell awaiting inspection. While he awaited judgement some of the Crimson Eye came to speak to him, from a safe distance. They offered him a new Shop and steady work, if he could carry on his Father's work. He could not. Not even close. The days after they left and before he was cleared were long, but then he was set to be released. Released into a world he had no real place in, his only marketable skill his ability to perform the simplest most monotonous and back breaking of labor. When his release came some of the Crimson Eye who had slain his Father and burned his home came to meet him and shine some light on his position. They told him what he already knew, that he had no future, and then they offered him one.
As a final gift to his Father they would offer Edrick one last shot at a life worth living or a death worth dying. He would get no favors if he chose to try out for the Phoenix Order, but they would see to it that he got a foot in the door. As it turned out that foot in the door was all Edrick needed. His mistakes were corrected violently, they spoke to him in a language he understood. His successes were met with more and harder work to do. Years of hard work had hardened him enough that he had made it this far through his Aegis training. He took some hard hits as the days wore on, but he dealt some pretty hard hits out himself. It wasn't pretty, but neither was he.
I finally got a Stephen King from a different entry using the same character that got me Ernest Hemingway earlier.
The door to the tavern swung open out into the streets of Footfall and a small hairy figure stumbled out, the various sounds of a packed and well soused tavern crowd spilling out from behind him. He was well lubricated, stepping out for a moment to enjoy the day and take a long drag off a cigar. His last trip with a Rogue Trader group had been sometime ago and he'd found Footfall relatively well suited to his interests. There was alcohol, there were women, and both in various flavors and strengths. Drugs of all sorts, depravities too. Perfect for him, yet he felt ready for a new trip as he almost always was, but then again there was a rather pretty stranger in the tavern. Buxom, loud, short and ripe, all in all just about right.
Holding the cigar in his mouth he combed through his sideburns and tried to set his hair right. Though it had started to go gray it was still thick and wild and not particularly keen to follow his commands. "Come on Roald," he muttered to himself as he fussed about, "we still got a few good years in us." He realized he likely needed a bath and had spent too long awake and in various cycling stages of drunkeness, but that was all part of his charm wasn't it? He wasn't the sort to be invited to meet a young woman's parents. Not his forte. He was more the curiosity quencher. He was half sized sure, but was he 100% half sized? Only one way to find out.
He took one last long look around town to see if he could spot any tell tale signs of coming adventures. As was so often the case there were gunshots sounding off from somewhere or other, ships burning through the skies to land from their last trip or set off on a new one, there just might be opportunities coming up short on the horizon. In a place known for it's vice there usually were. Still plenty of time to take his shot. If he wound up finding something for tomorrow he might as well make this night memorable. He licked his fingertips and used them to kill the cigar, dropped it back into a pocket, and pushed his way back into the tavern with a purpose.
I got Daniel DeFoe (author of Robinson Crusoe) again for the Personality and Background of a Parody Professional Wrestler I made up for the Arena
Danger, Danger Fontaine dreamed through all of his childhood of becoming a professional wrestler and eventually managed to make his dream come true. Growing up in South Dakota he knew from a young age that he was destined for greatness and the greatest greatness he could envision was becoming a massive slab of tanned and oiled muscle body slamming other, lesser, tanned and oiled massive muscle slabs for the entertainment and adoration of the million and millions watching at home. Happily fueled on by the antics of his wrestling idols, action movies, and neigh every book and training program advertised in the back of comic books, he grew muscleyier and muscleyier as his dream became an inevitable future.
He worked his way up through the indies gaining a reputation as an enormous ass, but an ass who put asses in seats. Which is the best kind of ass. Taking inspiration from his idols from America and the world abroad he fashioned for himself a number of easily recognized moves and a very recognizable physique. Muscles, Muscles, Mask and Mustache. In time he made his way to the premier federation of the United States, World Wide Wrestling, and found great success. As well as he did he faced many injuries and eventually ended up as too big of a liability to the company to remain. This was likely a wise move as his massive ego led to him suffering many injuries that would have sidelined him if he weren't just such an egomaniac. Finally one day his ceaseless and impossibly hyperbolic bragging brought him to the attention of some very powerful beings.
Finally I got J.K. Rowling from a Warhammer Fantasy bit about my Halfling, Shel Surefoot, fucking up.
Jagged ice shards had rained down upon the party and though Shel was entirely untouched by the Kislevite's spell he moved quickly to get himself into more effective cover. On his tiny little legs Shel dashed through the trees and brush. To flank the Ice Wizard of course, it was a very tactical decision. Move about unseen, circle around the these would be bandits, figure out what to do if he actually manages to sneak up on them when he actually manages to sneak up on them.
Shel felt more at home in such a situation anyway. Open fields were not the Halflings friend in combat, better to have things to hide behind or to climb. It was quieter in the thicket, but as Shel didn't wear heavy armor and didn't weigh much of anything himself he was able to move quite quickly while making near to no sound at all. It was how he had survived so long, it was how he acquired the nickname "Surefoot." Yes, he felt quite safe for the moment, in his element, untouchab-
Shel's awareness hadn't extended to the short bow across his back. It had caught on a low hanging branch, not quite knocking him off his feet but causing him to slip and kick up a gathering of leaves on the forest floor. Though he quickly regained his balance the sound of a snapping twig nearby indicated he had likely been noticed.
A gruff voice called out from the quiet, "Alright, hold it there or I'll gut you!" and Shel turned to see a particularly unwelcome sight, a momentarily airborne Dawi. Not just some every day Dawi either, this particular Dawi was clad in steel armor and holding a shield and axe at the ready. None of his equipment appeared to be new, and the Dawi himself didn't appear to be new either. Grey hair, scarred leathery skin, this was an experienced Dawi. Not good indicators for the Halfling's chances of survival.
"Gahhh," the Halfing retorted, quickly retreating several steps and drawing his dirk. Holding it as a man would a shortsword he gathered his thoughts, "Hold it right there or I'll I'll I'll gut you."
Shel didn't like his chances, and so he endeavored to improve them. Taking slight steps back and trying to circle around the Dawi Shel was really just stalling for time, hoping for some opportunity to open itself up. It was exactly the right plan. As fate would have it walking backward while also trying to circle an armed and angry thoroughly terrifying Dawi is a great way to create an opportunity, for the Dawi.
Keeping his eyes locked on the dangerous Dawi in what he imagined to be a quite intimidating death glare Shel stepped on some particularly wet leaves and soon found himself on his back and disarmed. Though he quickly got his barings back he found himself to be in a very sticky situation. His dirk had bounced off to the side near the trunk of a thick grey tree, but the blade was now between him and the Dawi who seemed to have mastered the intimidating death glare.
"You, uh," he stammered as he backed away on hands and knees from the armed and armored Dawi, "You're awfully quiet for a Dawi."
First Halfling thing I wrote got me Chuck Palahniuk author of Fight Club
"Oh yes, oh my yes" Shel said sighing happily.
The cart had stopped, and as much as he enjoyed his time traveling he enjoyed this most of all. A tired party coming to rest after a long day. It pleased every last bit of Halfling in him. A journey, a meal, the communion of tired travelers, and the creation of a home. A life traveling meant every day was built upon those pillars.
The half-elf and the human, Numzom and Tori, had been fairly quiet thus far but now perhaps they might come out of their shells. Shel had always found that sometimes the quiet ones in time had the most to say and it tended to pay dividends to listen when they spoke. All communities grew slowly, but once that growth started it tended to blossom rather quickly.
The Mithra, who was for all intents and purposes their de facto leader, set about creating a lighted perimeter around them then sat down aside one of the posts and began to play a flute. A beautiful tune really, though not particularly to Shel's liking. It was melancholic, sad, longing. Beautiful.
Shel threw the strap of his bag over his shoulder, then as Esalia played he dragged the firewood away from the wagon wheel and toward the center of camp to build a small fire. First a circle of stones, then the biggest pieces forming a square within that circle, then smaller and smaller pieces built up atop, finally from his bag an assortment of dried leaves, twigs, and thatch for kindling.
Striking flint against stone and blowing gently the kindling is quickly aflame and the fire begins to spread to the larger pieces below. As the fire comes to life Shel quickly produces from his bag three metal rods, each with a small hook about two thirds of the way up, and assembles them to form a tripod over the growing flame. He aligns the pot so that each rod will slide into the three small rings along the pots perimeter. Time to cook.
Immersed in his work and pleasantly accompanied by the song he pulls vegetables, meat, and spices from his bag, artfully arranging them before pouring water from his deer-skin bota into the pot. The meat will soon be edible though it will be some time before the stew is ready, and ideally it would cook for many hours more, but it will nourish their bodies just the same.
Venturing away from the pot, but keeping a keen eye on it, he toddles over to the Mithra.
Not wishing to intrude he sits a respectful distance away and listens to her play. He tends to prefer happier jaunty tunes, something a Halfling can dance to, but her playing is exquisite. As much as he loves the life he has now it makes him think back longingly on life among his kind. His Ma and Fa. There are no words to this song, but it speaks quite clearly of loss.
Leaning back until he can lay flat on his back Shel looks up at the stars as the Mithra plays on.
Same character from a little earlier in the same RP got me J.K. Rowling
The potential danger was right in their midst. He certainly looked dangerous to Shel, tall and weighty, oddly clothed, masked, faintly glowing. All tended to be tell tale signs of trouble. There was also the story he told of himself, explaining that you both were and were not responsible for the murder of 200 villagers, that also tended to be a tell tale sign of trouble.
But what was a Halfling to do?
Rintor and Rhen had began a vote in regard to just what to do with their stowaway. Shel was pretty sure from the way she was looking at him that the changeling had a list of ideas that was growing by the moment. But before much could come of that the Mithra Esalia had dashed in and been restrained by Rintor, preventing an encounter that may well have led to the death of incapacitation of one or the other.
With the battle momentarily delayed and the relative safety provided by having three of their number quite close indeed to the threat with a fourth providing bow and arrow cover Shel figured he really ought to do something.
His sling and his butcher knife weren't particularly threatening, but Shel wasn't very good at being threatening in general. Wasn't much good for much of anything in combat, good thing then it hadn't come to combat just yet. He tottered over waving gaily despite the awkwardness.
"Hello Victor the Crimson Marauder, hello Argor the Destroyer," he said to the stowaway, "I'm Shel the Halfling," looking uncomfortable and pointedly out of his depth he reached into his bag and pulled forth his mighty weapon with a flourish, "Would you care for some Traggot? It's a Dwarfen delicacy, boiled wolf hide."
Big Ass Chunk of Writing I saved in a doc from a Fallout RP got me Arthur Clarke
The bar is filled with the sounds of muffled worry, laughter, worry, and dread. A mutant works the register (that'd be Toad) and a young girl by the name of Nancy refills glasses with a mixture of hard alcohol and dirty radioactive water....why not. Change is in the air.
"So these travelers they're coming in and we're always happy to see new faces. I've got my gun tied jus' under the counter if'n any of them gets an idea and I'm pretty damn fast with it too. Fought in the war, dunno if i mentioned that, I did though. You know that old video with that B-O-S boy executing the prisoners and then that other one waves? Them prisoners were supposed to be my patients. It was an odd position ta be in. I'd shoot a man and then patch him up so as we could question him."
You make a circling gesture with your finger. You get the feeling if left to his devices this story might just spiral off in a thousand different directions at once until you found yourself squinting from the morning sunlight coming through the blinds.
"Yeah, yeah....so...where was I...Ah, So all these travelers are coming in. Sheriff and his boys are dragging the corpses off to the side. We didn't let it be known at the time but we would search each and everyone of those bodies for anything useful. Didn't usually come up with much but every last bit helps these days. So that's being taken care of which means I got a got a group of people with nothing to do until the next day, don't noone travel at night in these parts, and caps they're just itching to pour in my pocket."
"Me an' Nancy get them all set up and one of the fellers starts gettin' itchy. Asking all kinds of questions don't none of us want to hear and won't none of us answer."
You take another sip of your drink, it's pretty weak...you're going to need something stronger. You ask for a bit of the stronger Rotgut this time and it comes your way. You put your money down and ask, "What kind of questions?"
"Ahh...see not too many people know 'bout Innsmouth, aside from that it's a trading town and the fastest way through Louisiana....ehh hold on now. I need a bit of Rotgut meself."
You start to think that maybe this story will move a good bit faster the more the old ghoul drinks...and he just might drink a bit faster the more you spend...not a bad con, but you could use the company, you could probably just rest here in the bar, and hell you've got plenty of caps after that last job. You take your boots off.
"Now we didn't like to encourage asking questions. Didn't noone really knooow what what happened in Ipswich. See this was the general layout of the area. Lesse if i remember correctly. Now Ipswich, sometimes spelt Ippswich but it was really Ipswich, that was the port town. Just northeast of that was Newbury Port, also a port town. Now Newbury had a Vault installed because it was right on the border of the Mississippi so they could draw residents from both states. It's not really that important though. Ipswich right, then Innsmouth was Northwest of that and Innsmouth was basically the entrance to Ipswich in those days. See Newbury Port was surrounded by rocky terrain and only ever really accessed by rich folk. Ipswich was pretty much the opposite. There was one rich guy that ran a refinery down there, but neigh everyone was poor. They all worked at the refinery and made nuttin."
Sounds about right to you. That's how those things went in the days before the end. The rich got richer off the sweat and blood of the poor. In that way the war really leveled the playing field. These days just about all of us are poor.
"Ipswich wasn't just poor, other towns homeless would be grateful they didn't have to move down there just yet. Wasn't really anything much wrong with the folk before the war. Poor like I said, and given to superstition though. These were people who believed in ancient gods and strange rituals and whatnot. Bones and dust scattered outside front doors from time to time. Weird stuff but so what. They got a lot of ships in and they traded with them, brought in all kinds of goods. An awful lot of gold. But they'd bring all that stuff in and go up to Innsmouth to trade it in. I'll tell you what Innsmouth couldn't exist without Ipswich. They'd bring in crudely formed bricks of gold, melted in the old man...Norrys i believe, in his refinery. They'd bring them bars in and bring in whatever they'd traded off the ships and then they'd trade that stuff in for food mostly. Little trinkets too, semi-precious stones, twine, just general knick-knacks really. They spooked the people a little bit, they'd grown up with knowledge of all those old bayou superstitions and whatnot...but they people were mostly friendly and they provided a lot of trade...so what the hell? Why not?"
"Anyway few months 'afore the war this guy, reporter by the name of Williamson, came down and left in a hurry. Wrote to his congressmen or whatever and there was supposed to be this big investigation of Ispwich. Then things with them Chinese started getting real shaky and the investigation was forgotten. Little while later bombs dropped and well...hell you know what happened. Sky fell down, Chicken Little went around screaming his head off, Big Bad Wolf ate him, I was awaiting redeployment at the time. I never made it into a Vault as you might have guessed by my complexion. Wandered around, ended up in Innsmouth with a few other ghouls. We scrabbled up a makeshift town, not half as nice as this, then when the Vaults opened and people came out they saw us and remembered all them zombie movies. Can't really blame them i suppose. Years and years in a Vault, they get to watching movies, see these shambling rotting [censored]ers, come out and see us...hell some of us even have limps. So most of us get killed but at some point they realize we ain't shambling forward into their gunfire we're cowering or doing a little jig to avoid the bullets. They stopped firing and we start building Innsmouth up again."
The barkeep pushes against the bar stretching his back. You wonder for a second if you would be able to see the tendons and muscles flex in his back...just how far does Ghoul decomposition go anyway?
"A couple years later the people of Innsmouth started encountering the remains of Ipswich and it's inhabitants, that's when the trouble began."
"Now first contact was made by a rather ugly little man by the name of Jefty Norrys, somehow related to the Norrys family that owned that refinery you see. It seemed that they had survived somehow and the refinery was still working. He had brought in another of those crudely formed gold bricks and was looking for trade. Of course at that time we had very little to offer. Innsmouth had been rebuilt but only in so much as we had roofs under which to sleep once more. There was some trade at the time but only very little and we only infrequently had anything to actually offer the traders that would come through. We made a bargain then with him, as a representative of Ipswich."
There aren't near as many customers in the bar now. Toad has been talking for some time and most of the customers have gotten good and drunk and set off for home. Two of them are asleep in their chairs off in the corner. Toad continues
"I ain't too pretty to look at these days, an' I know it. I weren't too pretty to luck at then either. I was a mite bit prettier than now though. The mutation had jes' started to set in. Gave my right eye this slightly bloated look right and bumps all down that side of my face, and of course my skin colour was more grey green than pink. Wasn't a looker for certain but people could for the most part deal with it. I looked like person just a...a really badly [censored] up person. Jefty was diff'rnt."
"All them Ipswich people were diff'rnt really. Jefty was just the first we met though, so the differences stood out more. He was very business like for one thing. When he came in he was very matter of fact about what he wanted from us and what he had to offer...which isn't that odd, except that he spoke with such haste and looked at us in such a way that it was clear he couldn't wait to be back out the door. It was strange. Oh but I haven't described him at all yet."
I got Cory Doctorow a few times too but I don't know who he is. Got him again for Desert Tough Guy story.
You know how some smells have a meaning to them and some sights have a meaning too? Like the smell of apple pie right, to Americans that's home that's a happy smell. The Statute of Liberty, the sight of her brings some nice patriotic feelings. Well it did when it existed anyway.....I hear. Yeah well it works the same way for sounds too.
The sound of a Wesson .357 Magnum's hammer cocking back, particularly when it comes from behind is that way. It means if you screw up in the next few seconds you're going to be falling for a long long time. If you're lucky that is the end of you. If those guys with the little white neck dealies were right though, well than Collie he would be lucky for that to be the end. With that sound all your hopes for tomorrow, the big and the small, a set of Brotherhood T-51b Power Armor with the TX-28 MicroFusion Pack fully loaded or a nights sleep without dreaming of the people you killed to live another day.....when you hear that sound it's gone. It's the sound of the first crow to land on your corpse or the sound of the first shovel full of dirt dumped on you just before you twitch your last and give in to the darkness. So yeah. It's not a good experience.
Standing stock still and looking at rows and rows of unnamed sandy graves Collie Entragian is feeling exactly that. His world comes back to focus as a brown slimy blob comes flying into his vision about two feet in front of him. Frye wipes his mouth of the residue of chewing tobacco.
"Filthy habit"
Collie keeps his head down.
Collie doesn't believe in ghosts. Collie doesn't believe in God. He doesn't believe in Grognak the Barbarian. At the moment though he's pretty sure there is a sixth sense because he can FEEL the emptiness of the barrel of the gun pointing at his head. He can feel the bullet in there just itching to spill his life into the sand. He can almost feel that first shovel full of dirt, landing softly on his face seeping into his shirt, lightly dusting the exit wound, just like he could almost hear it when the hammer cocked back. This is still not a good time.
"Something I didn't tell you when I brought you in Entragian. There's a bounty on your head, a sizable one. Regulators, independent of us Regulators, they hear tale you killed one of their own down in New Reno."
He spits again, this time hitting Collie's boot.
"As far as I'm concerned the Regulator's can get fucked. But if you don't say yes when I'm done talking here 98% of you is staying right here until the next time too many of "us" piss too many of "them" off and we finish this planet off for good. The other 2% I'm sending in the shirt pocket of one of my deputies right down to California and collect on that bounty."
"So think about that alright? I think you've got it." Without turning his head or moving his arm an inch Frye yells for a Deputy. A second later Collie hears that door open again.
"Yes sir?"
"Bring out a chair for Mr. Entragian, we've got to finish this little pow-wow."
For some reason sitting in a wooden chair with the killing end of a .357 pressed against that little divot where spinal cord meets skull is a lot worse than standing with that same gun in the same position. Just the indignity of dying sitting after spending so damn much of your life wandering this wasteland I guess. Like if you went somewhere pleasant, like that exists, but if it does it feels as though they'd all know you'd died lounging in a chair rather than running or collapsing to your feet or something a bit better.
"Spring Valley got eaten up pretty bad last week Collie. I hear you knew a few folks down there. They're dead. You know that thing? That thing that weak men with guns sometime do to women without guns? Yeah there was a lot of that too. There ain't a whole lot left. Scraps, their mutie bartender they left him to tell the story. Seems like bartenders always have stories don't it? And they're just about always muties these days too. He told us what happened then he walked back into his bar and tucked himself in for a dirt nap. It was the Legionnaires. We can't go against them Collie. We don't have the men and California doesn't want to put the effort into clearing out the rest of Nevada right now. You though. They just might let you in again."
Depending on the nature of what it is I am writing according to these varied tests, apparently I am some amalgam Lovecraft, Orwell, and Poe. These are all acceptable outcomes, even if I am skeptical that my writing is anywhere familiar to any of them. Not because I am modest, I am what I am, but because I see some relation as much as I do not. Perhaps then it is that variation which it reflected that is why or at least so my suspicion goes.
So I did it three times assuming I would get the same author 2 out of 3 times, but no I got three different dudes. Only one of which I've actually read before.
I got Stephan King, Cory Doctorow, and Arthur Clarke.
