BangoSkank

In This Fine Town Of Arkham - A Lovecraftian Mystery

Yes. Hell yes.

I would say "are there Halflings", as I so enjoy doing, but yes either way.

I don't have a name yet but he'll be an artist. Every Lovecraft story needs an artist. I'm thinking either a Salvador Dali type or an Architect. Haunted dreams, compulsive drawings, a nagging nebulous inspiration he can't quite bring to light.

RPGWC Monthly Short Story Contest

In the long long ago when I had entirely too much time for writing, and Smashmouth was still enjoyed unironically, there was a super community run writing contest. It was fun. This is going to be that but more better.

The concept is as follows:

- A prompt is chosen
- Folks have one month to write a short story based on that prompt and submit it as well as a new idea for a prompt anonymously
- Every one who participated votes on which story was best, not voting for their own story as that is super weak and against the rules
- Explaining why you chose which story you voted for is encouraged as is constructive criticism
- A winner is chosen and gets to chose the prompt for the next month
- The winner may chose to let folks know he/she won or remain anonymous
- At the end of the year maybe we see who won the most or maybe not, it's mostly just for funsies and to develop our writing

I would like to begin this in April which means we have the remainder of March to pick an initial story prompt. We may as well vote on that as well. If everyone interested in participating in a monthly Short Story contest could suggest an initial prompt by say March 26th then by the end of the month we could democratically pick one to start with and have a jolly good old time.

Prompts could be things as simple as Universal Themes like Loss, Love, Balance, or Time or Settings like Wild West, Fantasy, CyberPunk, Warhammer or a combination of things if you want to be more specific. You might also make the narrative style part of the prompt, like First Person, Third Person, Third Person Omniscient, or Unreliable Narrator.

My idea is "Loss in a Fantasy Setting"

It's a pretty vague prompt which is in my opinion usually for the best. It could be mega edgelord "Drea'th Manslaughto, last of my tribe" or it could be "Timmy got bombed on Orcish Grog and lost his life savings in a game of Halfling Toss" or anything in between. But if anyone writes that second one I think we have a clear winner.

Prompt Voting for April

"Loss in a Fantasy Setting" suggested by BangoSkank
(1 Vote from Kassarock)

"Halfling Goes to Casino" suggested by DraconiWarlord

"Campfire Stories Made Real" suggested by Kalleth
(3 Votes from BangoSkank, chrysocoma, and sassy1085)

"Friends Turn Lovers Turn Enemies" suggested by sassy1085

"To What Lengths Does a God Go To Protect Their Friends?" suggested by ZAVAZggg
(1 Vote from Kalleth)

Questions and Answers

Sausages I pressure cooked with beer and firefighter bbq sauce.

Who put the bop in the bop shabop, who put the ram in the rama lama ding dong?

Tips for writing POC, LGBT+, and other minority characters in RP

I have no experience.

Generally write as some sort of non-human or human adjacent fantasy race. Mostly Halflings. Usually sexuality doesn't come up.

I want to have an African American character in a story in writing soon and I wanted to have a Bisexual Female Halfling in this story I was going to do with TyrannosaurusRex here. I bring this up because I did run into and likely will continue to run into a bit of a conundrum.

As RainyHigh mentioned the "hiding/closeting" idea in regard to Trans I wanted to make these characters but without either making them both Straight White Male characters who tangentially were occasionally pointed out to be not straight white male characters, or going the other direction and making them exaggerations or tropes or what have you.

Particularly difficult in regard to the African American character as the story I want to write him in is set in 1968. Lots of tokenism or white savior or other such tropey traps to avoid. Particularly since my main character in this is literally Captain America.

My thinking is to try to avoid tropey things, in both cases, while also trying to avoid the Trope Inversion trope. Essentially just trying to make a character whose life and views are shaped by these things without making the character's character purely these things. Wish me luck. I'll probably consult this thread for both.

Post a random fact about yourself.

Most folks have that at some point. It's not always "families and houses" but it's usually something. Don't sweat it. Buying a house and getting hitched don't mean you have your shit together, they mean you have some level of investment in a potentially crippling transaction.

Save money, climb the ladder at work or find new work, honestly assess your relationships and then either end them or shore them up for coming storms. Maybe go to your bank and ask to talk with someone about buying a house. They can at least talk to you about your credit, what you need for a down payment, and how much they would be able to cover you for for now.

Something about me - I moved and it's fantastic. Less stress. Less work. Making friends. No good Chinese restaurant but I can always cook.

Fitness, Work outs, and Practices from a learning Martial Artist.

Any thing like that is a lot a lot better in person. Particularly if you want to get better at it in addition to just getting in better shape. A lot of stuff is about form. It helps a lot to have someone around to tell you what you're doing wrong. Often it's little things like switching your hips or pivoting on a back foot.

If there is a community college near you maybe try signing up for a karate class...if it's cheap. They often have a lot more variance in regard to age and shape and all of that. I took one once and it had folks from about 18 into their 40s and was taught by a 50+ one eyed fat man.

They tend to be supportive too. Much like with anyone at a gym who isn't a complete douchelord they tend to appreciate that everyone starts somewhere. Plus you don't have to wear super tight spandex that clings desperately to your every curve like a woman my age to the notion that she can still seduce current Hollywood heart throb if she could just meet him. You can wear track pants or sweatpants or whatever.

You Are the Gnome

Bathe in the sacred waters of Lake Minnetonka.

Fitness, Work outs, and Practices from a learning Martial Artist.

I don't currently practice one, just moved to a town that barely has a gym.

I took a karate class for a little bit and then this MMA place that did different kinds of kickboxing for a good while.

Muay Thai was my favorite but any kind of kickboxing is good for confidence, cardio, and sort of general getting into good shape stuff. Karate is great too. Karate is probably better if you have mobility issues or joint issues or need to start slower / feel self conscious about getting started.

Boxing can be great too. Learning to punch right is a lot of fun and doing it in a group is a great way to burn calories and get better coordination.

If money is an issue and you have a space to exercise I'll happily shill P90X and you won't even end up in my downstream (that's a pyramid scheme joke)

Fitness, Work outs, and Practices from a learning Martial Artist.

You should get into it. There are so many different forms. Even if only as a weight loss or self confidence thing. Or so you can take Tinder pictures that make women think you can defend yourself or them from things.

①⑨⑥⑧

Vietnam
December 31st 1967

---

Yeah yeah yeah. Yeah. You heard right. Vietnam is hot. It's muggy. It smells different. It looks different. That don't mean everything is different though. People are still people and fuck yes New Years Eve is still New Years Eve.

The last day of December 1967 and goddam if we weren't still riding high off Tam Quan. This shit was what we here for. This shit was one hundred percent the shit that I was here for. Every single one of us who was here to be here had gotten some this December and after we got done getting some and we got back to what passes for civilization out here you know god damn well we got some. If you weren't getting it from someone in your unit you were getting it somewhere. All of it. Sex, booze, smokes, weed, acid, speed, uppers, downers, zips, zooms, and whamwhams.

We'd just been walking the fences since then. Baking in the sun. Sharing stories and bodily fluids with each other. Training together, talking shit together, playing cards together, listening to music together, killing time in the armpit of the world man, together. There were so many of us, it was so goddamned hot, and we were all still so pepped up on Tam Quan. That was where I met Betsy. Fucking Betsy man. Thinking about her gets me antsy again. Ooo wee.

See December had jumped off quick. Word came down in the tail end of November that Intelligence had heard the PAVN or Vietcong or LASV or some group was heading on down to Bong Son so we were ready. We were itching. PAVN, LASV, Vietcong, those are all just slight variations on enemy. Sure enough in the first few days of December they headed down Highway 1 and started moving on our boys, that's ARVN, Army of the Republic of Vietnam. The good guys, second place anyway. America is Number One and all that shit. So that's how it started, the Battle of Tam Quan.

December 6th and they send the 9th Cav in to investigate. They're pinned down quick so they call in the 8th Cav and they send me with 'em. Goddamned Captain America shit here we go. Hey bartender get me a beer yeah? Whatever you got. Yeah that's right I drink this shit. It's beer man. No. Fuck no they ain't gonna poison me, I'm a regular customer and these are friendlies. Plus I'm just too damn good. Look at me. Just look at me.

You know how we do it. 1725 Hours they tell us to go. 1800 Hours my feet hit the street and I've got a new dancing partner. Helicopter crew was worried, they smelled it so they hooked me up with my girl. Betsy. You know where Betsy came from brother? Goddamned General Electric. No, I'm not kidding. General Electric. This sweet piece of ass is a scaled down M61 Vulcan. She can put out 4,000 a minute before she overheats. That's more than your mom. Goddamn, right?

So like I was saying. 1800 Hours we're landed, by 2100 we've got the 9th Cav on their way out and we're setting up perimeter. Betsy wanted to dance. You should really see us go. We do a mean Mashed Potato.

What happened next? Yeah, sure I'll tell yeah. Let me just get a drink. Long story. Shit gets real you know? You want one? I got you, it's no problem.

Tam Quan, Binh Dinh Province, Vietnam
December 1967

---

We just about always came onto the scene the same way. Hot, fast, and spitting lead with a fury that spirit of vengeance those preachers are so fond of might find familiar. Not everyone is in it. They never are. Enough folk have second thoughts, enough don't really want to be there. Me and my boys were right where we wanted to be. I was right where I was made to be. My element.

My assistant gunner wasn't much of a killer. Isaiah Green. Maybe Greene with an E, I never did see it spelled out. He wasn't any good behind a barrel but he was goddamned fearless. Shouldn't have been here, got into a whole pile of shit for dating the wrong white woman and didn't let those sons of bitches just beat him to death. Got his pick between life behind bars and death out in the jungles of fucking Vietnam. He was good people. He painted my face up right every morning and he kept Betsy dancing all through the night. He shouldn't have been here but thank fuck he was. Kept me from getting myself into too much trouble when I was feeling myself a little too much.

And god damn if I wasn't feeling myself that day. Bare feet hanging out the chopper, and I was just looking for a target, someone that wanted shooting. Sometimes the pickings were slim and these were definitely some slim pickings. Made our job easier but a lot less fun. No one for me to shoot, no need for Isaiah to keep my belt fed, just a quick landing and we all met up with the 50th Infantry and piled into their ACAV armored carrier. Took us straight into Tam Quan no fuss no muss. They come in from LZ English and took us all the way in. By 2100 Hours we had the 9th Cav on their way out and we were setting in for the fun to come. Night Perimeter. Whole lot of nothing. Hair trigger tension. Sweat beading out and trickling down your face. Bugs eating you up. Just watching the seconds tick and waiting for the shit to kick. Shit never did kick, not all night.

Morning start up and I smelled it. Fuck if I know what it smells like but you do the right time and you can smell it. No mistaking it. Not ever. It was coming and when shit like that come you gotta be ready or you'll be dead. Gotta take inventory of who you got and what you got. Gotta be able to judge a man. I'm a goddam killer and no doubt about it. Isaiah wasn't no killer. His business never was killing, but he got down to anything else with a fear of nothing but God. Rumlow was solid too. Killer just like me except he was pay for play, wasn't in no ones service but his own. Damn good though, good man to have on your side and a horrible man to have for an enemy. Most of the other men I knew by face and reputation. Not much sense in learning names at the rate we were dropping.

Sat there with Isaiah talking shit out. Man had a keen mind. We did that more often than not. I knew one side of it, the killing. Isaiah had a sharp mind for all the other shit. The shit that meant me and mine could keep on killing without getting killed our damn selves. Vehicle positioning, traps, assignments, that was mostly his doing. Lead where you can right but know your limits. While he was going over all that I finished my preparations. Cheap shit MRE, watery mashed potatoes. Helped them out with a Red. Broke it apart and mixed the innards in with the potatoes. Isaiah kept talking and time kept on ticking. Threw another Red in there. I smelled it. The boys would be busy soon enough.

Most of them weren't killers but you didn't have to be a killer to be a soldier. You had to follow orders or at least try to. In Vietnam a lot of men died trying. Lot of men decided not to try and a lot of them we saw sure to dying. Wasn't nice. War never was. By the time we got clear to Tam Quan we'd cut most of the fat.

Lean meat. All around the perimeter. Betsy front and center behind a couple of barrels. Dancing shoes strapped tight. Vehicles positioned up front for cover and early detection. Traps laid. Bright eyed and bushy tailed. The best of America just waiting for what every one of us knew was coming, and then it did.

0725 that morning they hit the vehicles hard. Blew the Jeep apart and tore up the ACAV pretty decent. Poured a shit ton of artillery fire in too. Too far away to be accurate and we were dug in well. Only suffered one casualty. Youngster got his with a bolt from the Jeep, pulped his head. Quick death. No pain.

From there it was all action. Reinforcements got flown in. More men, more weapons. ARVN, 40th Regiment. We reformed the perimeter and then me and my boys set out to get some. Sent Rumlow out to the East, where they was coming from, to rustle some shit up. Flamethrowers, grenade launchers, our last Armored Personnel Carrier, half diversion half retribution. They pushed hard. That Rumlow was a hard son of a bitch. Pushed hard East, got around those bastards and pushed them back. Back to us.

I always liked to keep shit simple. Direct. Lethal.

Colt Commander .45, my M60, my KA-BAR, a few grenades. That was my standard issue. 8 round magazines for the pistol. Belts for the M60. She was a hungry bitch too, ate them belts up fast. Gas operated, short stroke, open bolt, more than 500 rounds per minute. That was my kit. Sometimes I took some extra goodies, but I kept it simple today. Simple is good, simple is predictable.

Rumlow did things different and today, with Betsy, it all worked out just fine. Just fine.

That day and the days that would follow, the Battle of Tam Quan. That's Vietnam in a nutshell brother.

Us and the ARVN holding the line. A bunch of American boys in the middle of Vietnam standing beside a bunch of Vietnamese boys while another bunch of Vietnamese boys come at us. Screaming bloody murder, opening fire, running out of the tree line. My brothers firing on them. Their brothers firing on us. Blood. Fire. Smoke. Oil. Clouds of CS coming out from behind them, flushing the Vietcong out. That would be Rumlow's work. The gas and the fire. Chaos on chaos. Can't hardly hear a thing over the shots. Can't hardly see a thing over the flames and the smoke. Just shapes running at you pointing sparking sticks at you, and then they're gone.

It's a nightmare. It's a dream. And there I am. Flag paint mostly washed off ages ago from the sweat and the heat but I got a new paint. My own paint, got opened up a bit at some point. Didn't even notice it. Was a bit busy. I notice it now in this one instant. This postcard memory of Tam Quan.

I'm standing there in the middle of it. Fucking rooted. Blood leaking from my head, trickling down my chest. The heat of flames drying it out, dancing on my skin. The sight of the smoke. The sounds of our guns and occasionally the sound of one of their rounds zipping past our heads. Betsy dancing in my hands, Isaiah keeping her fed. The smell of coppery blood, oil, and the lavender scent of the gas Rumlow was using to flush the enemy out. If I hadn't been so hopped up I might be running too.

Probably not though. Would have missed out on this. Couldn't do that. Not ever. Can't forget it. Not ever. Couldn't tell you what day I took that little mental snapshot. Some time between December 6th and the 9th. That's Vietnam baby. It all bleeds into one.