Avatar of deegee

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Recent Statuses

4 mos ago
Current =W= forever. Today's jam: Jamie (acoustic.)
5 mos ago
Waldo took some time off and finally found himself.
4 likes
5 mos ago
Why shouldn't you argue with a dinosaur? You'll get jurasskicked.
3 likes
6 mos ago
This book on anti-gravity is so surreal, I can’t put it down.
3 likes
6 mos ago
Just type.

Bio

Howdy. I'm Dee. Been tabletop RP'ing since '90 (D&D 2, 3, 3.5, Rifts, Palladium, D20, Pathfinder, Shadowrun) and writing collaborative fiction for nearly ten years (JvS, represent!) In my day-to-day existence, I'm a theatre technician, a parent, I tend to work too much -- and writing is my escape. I take it pretty seriously.

I'm a pretty big fan of Sci-Fi (but I'm pretty selective about what I read,) Post Apocalyptica, certain Fantasy works (though I prefer my sword-and-sorcery via tabletop...) and Zombies. Used to watch a lot of movies, and read a lot, but having a three-year-old stymies that quite a bit. (2022 edit: the three year old is now nine!)

Some character inspirations: Harry Callahan, Max Rockatansky, William Munny, Snake Plissken, Tyler Durden, Cpl. Hudson (RIP,) Severen (RIP,) Peter Venkman, Malcolm Reynolds, Han Solo (to be continued...)

I tend to look for small groups of dedicated, talented writers who post regularly and love the unknown of spontaneous or semi-planned RP. Hit me up with ideas!

Most Recent Posts

Not sure if you lot are looking for more meat. I was born for this. I'd love to be a part of the tale. Let me know what you think...


Jesse arrived at the Sin Den a little after 18:30, and was welcomed by the usual pat-down at the door. Price you pay for wearing prison tats in "polite" society. Poor bastard at the door -- Jesse had come straight from work, and was likely smelling none-too-fresh. Guy doing the frisking was getting the worst end of the deal, that was for sure. Finally inside, his mind was next-to-switched-off. He walked to the bar, laying down a fistful of crumpled bills, and spoke to the bartender, pointing at a table in the corner furthest from the stage. "I'm gonna be over there. Let me get a beer, and just let me know when that **indicating the bills on the bar-top** runs out."

He moved over to the table, not sitting so much as collapsing into the plush seat against the wall. There was a girl of some description on the stage, and a few more working the room, though he didn't take much notice. This place had air conditioning, and he could drown his life in beer in the relative comfort of the bar (till it closed) before having to make his way back to the shitty trailer he called 'home' and not sleep for another night.

There was a disturbance over by the commode. Laurents. Moons, too. His body tensed, and he instinctively reached for the .45 at the small of his back, which wasn't there. Then he remembered. This wasn't his fight anymore, was it? He was a citizen now. Didn't matter if he was Moon blood. He was straight now. Didn't matter if every cell in his body strained to act. Ached for his former life.

He took another long pull on his beer, draining it, and signaled one of the waitresses that he was dry. Blessed black-out, fall-down drunk couldn't come fast enough. Maybe then his head would stop screaming at him...


5:48. Four goddamn minutes since the last time he'd checked his watch. A long-ass, shitty, fucked-up day sitting on this godforsaken piece of blacktop, ten miles outside the 'Geurch. Diggin' holes. Diggin' holes, fillin' holes. Laying culvert in the middle of fucking June, 90 degree heat, 90% humidity. Someone's idea of torture. "Honest work." Jesse didn't know what hurt worse, the sunburn, his back, or the idea that the day would net him only $75 after taxes. Fuck sakes. He rubbed at the sweat under his hardhat, and pitched in helping Julio load the Genny into the back of truck #13. They set out the after hours blinking LED warning signs, stating 'work zone, uneven pavement 2mi' They tossed their tools into the work box on the back of truck #4, the only other vehicle on the shoulder that day. Both were mid-90's Chevy's. Long-box, crew cab, 2500-series. Both had long miles on the odo and smelled of sweat and dirt constantly. Dropping the tailgate, Jesse hopped up, and opened his lunch-bag, drawing out two cold ones. Julio jumped up beside him, and Jesse handed over a can. No words were exchanged.

Both men were just out from long stretches (Julio 8, Jesse 6) and they knew enough to not pry into the other's existence. Jesse drained half his beer in one pull, silently hating his life and staring at the open road. All was silent except the noise of crickets and dragonflies buzzing in the marsh to the South. Jesse had long since stopped swatting at mozzies. What was the rad-blasted point?

In the distance, a new sound. Minuscule at first. Maybe it wasn't even real. No... there it was again. A drone. Getting louder now. Throaty. Reverberating. Sound bouncing off the trees and the water. All around them now. He knew what it was already, and they were still over a mile away. He lay back in the filthy bed of the truck, defeated. Why now? Why did they have to stab him in the senses when he was down? Julio leaned over. "Hey man -- you hear that? Sounds like..."

The bikes rounded a corner and roared toward the two trucks sitting at the side of the road. One, two, six, ten. They flew by, the sound so deafening it could be felt in your gut, like AC/DC on steroids. A beer can clattered onto the road as the last bike passed, and Jesse resignedly hauled himself up, out of the truck to pick up the litter. (It was part of the job.)

"Yeah, I heard that. Bloody Fucking Moons." He checked his watch. 6:01. Thank Christ. He piled into the cab of the truck, along with Julio and two other workers. The foreman and three more were in the other vehicle. "Let's get outta here. I got a cold beer at the Sin Den with my name on it... help me try and forget this shit..."
So who's starting us off IC?


@Kingfisher Thanks!


Walmart Customer Service -- March 15, 2018 - Framingham, Massachusetts

As the crouching man turned around, having picked up... (batteries?) Ryan swung the tool (Edger, $24.99, aisle 17 -- 'garden implements') - swung it overhand, aiming for the base of the man's skull. Swung it hard -- but not too hard, y'know? Hard enough to put him down, give him a headache... but not hard enough to... He concentrated to make sure he connected with the flat of the tool, not the edge... that'd be bad. Ryan agonized all thee way through children's clothing (3T Onesie, Osh Kosh, $13, aisle 2) and seasonal (American flag, $9.99, aisle 40) about how he should hit the man. How hard, where, when. He worried about whether he'd succeed. He'd lost weight, that was for sure, but he was still a tall dude, and the heft of the tool in his hands was enough.

"Enough." Jesus, enough for what? Enough to end this man's life? Enough to hurt him, but not turn him into one of those things? Enough to make him stumble? Fall? Ryan was worried. He wasn't exactly an expert on this shit. If only he had a tazer. That would have been easier. Except he'd miss. He'd fucking miss, and then this guy would fucking kill him. Ryan had followed the guy awhile. Long enough to spot other tools (Conduit Bender, $61.98, aisle 14, 'Tools and Job-site Safety Apparel') or potential weapons (Canoe Paddle, Grey Owl brand, $85, aisle 35, 'sporting goods') and discard them for fear of picking something that would most certainly have killed the man (conduit bender) or not hurt him badly enough (paddle.) He also discarded the notion of his trusty aluminum bat. He knew enough to know the bat was too light, too perfectly balanced, too small a surface for the force that could be exerted. (Thanks, Miss Higgins' Physics class...) Using the bat would have been a killing blow. There was no two ways about it. So the edger would have to do.

He had followed the man at a medium distance since electronics (Far Cry 4, $9.99, End Cap 2 -- 'clearance') and through the Men's Clothing section (Punisher Tee, $4.99, floating rack three, 'Assorted Pop Culture graphic Tees.') Ryan didn't know why the man and his friend were here, but if there was one, there'd be another, and then there would be more. More meant noise. Noise meant Stinkers. Stinkers meant he'd have to move on. And right now, Ryan didn't want to go anywhere. He couldn't. There were still three hundred forty-four pairs to check.

He'd been eating out of a container of potato salad (St. Clair, $6.99, Deli counter 'Xpress.') for the past few days (Coleman camp cooler, $36.99, Aisle 34, 'camping and sporting goods') and sleeping in the security office. It was as good a place as any, and given his particular circumstances, maybe his only option. He'd lost track of the number of days he'd been here. A month? More?

...It wasn't a swing intended to kill -- no, merely incapacitate, or more accurately -- render non-hostile.

@Lady of Lore @The DudeMan
@AllOurPrettySongs

My doomsday machine requires no password. I'm chaotic like that. (and I have a terrible memory for such things.)

nyuk nyuk...
All of the Pretty, Lovely songs! Thanks for stopping by!

I remembered the password. Then I wrote it down on my iPhone 'notes' page, along with all my other bank cards, credit cards, my wife's birthday, my pants size from nine years ago, my psychiatrists' cell number, and all the other terribly important info.

I'll hit you up with any querulous quandaries I find myself in. ;)

-D
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