Interested!
Fisticuffs Member
My hypocrisy knows no bounds
STATUS: I won't bring my own beer, but I will bring da muthafuckin' ruckus. 7 yrs ago
- Last Seen: 2 yrs ago
- Joined: 8 yrs ago
- Posts: 175 (0.06 / day)
- VMs: 1
-
Username history
- Fisticuffs 8 yrs ago
Status
Recent Statuses
7 yrs ago
Current
I won't bring my own beer, but I will bring da muthafuckin' ruckus.
1
like
7 yrs ago
Fuck. It's been a while since I've been pissed off. Usually, I just get sad, so this is a welcome change of pace.
1
like
7 yrs ago
Paul Baribeau is my favorite person ever.
7 yrs ago
Wow. Woman Beating Jackass won against a guy from a completely different sport. Is he proud of that?
2
likes
7 yrs ago
"Personality, I mean that's what counts, right? That's what keeps a relationship going through the years. Like heroin, I mean heroin's got a great fucking personality."
2
likes
Bio
User has no bio, yet
Most Recent Posts
"Damn." Felix hissed. The way he figured, they would've barely been able to this with all of the backup, and all of the supplies. Thinks were risky before, but now they practically betting on a lame horse. Thomas noticed the concern on Felix's face, and frowned. "That is most unfortunate." He looked around. "Gerard, Anna. Watch the windows." The great hulk of a Frenchman, and the Russian markswoman moved to windows on opposite side of the room. Felix found a table, and Thomas and Edouard dragged it to the middle of the room for him. Most times, Felix seemed a lot younger than he was. In times like this, when Felix was worried or exhausted, Thomas could see his years. The Old Partisan reached into his satchel and withdrew a rolled up map, which he laid out on the table. It was a map of France and part of the surrounding countries. "There's no way to ease into this, so I'll say it outright. We have reliable information suggesting that the Krauts are doing research into the Occult and the Paranormal."
Silence. Bernard raised an eyebrow, Edouard looked confused, Anna chuckled to herself, and Gerard didn't even move.
"What do you mean?" Thomas asked scratching his head.
"I mean, the Nazis are getting up to all sorts of scary shit. Some sort of solution that can turn people, and anyone they bite, into feral cannibals. Metal armor powered by ghosts. Rifles that shoot lightning. Soldiers that can turn invisible." He sighed. "We don't know how much of this is true, but we do know that the Russians are taking hefty losses on the Eastern Front, which is a battle they should be winning. Conflicting reports from the front say all sorts of nonsense, but there are patterns." He ran a hand through his hair. "That's what we've heard, anyways. That's what we told your Government, the Brits, and Tommy's government. They seem to take this pretty seriously. The Americans are especially worried that the Krauts will start using this stuff in Africa, and the Brits are afraid of this stuff being used in air raids." He shrugged. "As expected, The Irish voice concern, but maintain neutrality."
"Fuckin' De Valera." Thomas mumbled. Felix chuckled dryly.
"We wanted to talk to the Russians, too, but that's been difficult." Felix frowned. "The Brits said they might help, eventually, but the Americans sent you guys. We're going to break into a Research Facility here." He drew a pen from his bag and marked a spot on the map, in German-Occupied France, near the Swiss Border. "Safest way to get there is going to be through Vichy Territory. I might have a way to get us some real transportation. Either way, we'll be stuck here tonight." He stopped, and looked at the people he'd just addressed. Felix wanted to stop there, but he supposed he had just told them that the Nazis were essentially using magic weapons. He sighed, as he seemed to be doing a lot, anymore. "Do remember that this is all speculation. We have intel, but intel's never 100% right, is it? We need to take this with a grain of salt, but remain on guard." He cleared his throat. Thomas raised his hand. Felix nodded.
"If we see some of those lightning rifles, are we allowed to use them, sir?" Thomas asked, with a note of humor. Felix's lip twitched, like he wanted to smile, but was suppressing it.
"Fine, but don't blame me if it blows up in your hands."
Silence. Bernard raised an eyebrow, Edouard looked confused, Anna chuckled to herself, and Gerard didn't even move.
"What do you mean?" Thomas asked scratching his head.
"I mean, the Nazis are getting up to all sorts of scary shit. Some sort of solution that can turn people, and anyone they bite, into feral cannibals. Metal armor powered by ghosts. Rifles that shoot lightning. Soldiers that can turn invisible." He sighed. "We don't know how much of this is true, but we do know that the Russians are taking hefty losses on the Eastern Front, which is a battle they should be winning. Conflicting reports from the front say all sorts of nonsense, but there are patterns." He ran a hand through his hair. "That's what we've heard, anyways. That's what we told your Government, the Brits, and Tommy's government. They seem to take this pretty seriously. The Americans are especially worried that the Krauts will start using this stuff in Africa, and the Brits are afraid of this stuff being used in air raids." He shrugged. "As expected, The Irish voice concern, but maintain neutrality."
"Fuckin' De Valera." Thomas mumbled. Felix chuckled dryly.
"We wanted to talk to the Russians, too, but that's been difficult." Felix frowned. "The Brits said they might help, eventually, but the Americans sent you guys. We're going to break into a Research Facility here." He drew a pen from his bag and marked a spot on the map, in German-Occupied France, near the Swiss Border. "Safest way to get there is going to be through Vichy Territory. I might have a way to get us some real transportation. Either way, we'll be stuck here tonight." He stopped, and looked at the people he'd just addressed. Felix wanted to stop there, but he supposed he had just told them that the Nazis were essentially using magic weapons. He sighed, as he seemed to be doing a lot, anymore. "Do remember that this is all speculation. We have intel, but intel's never 100% right, is it? We need to take this with a grain of salt, but remain on guard." He cleared his throat. Thomas raised his hand. Felix nodded.
"If we see some of those lightning rifles, are we allowed to use them, sir?" Thomas asked, with a note of humor. Felix's lip twitched, like he wanted to smile, but was suppressing it.
"Fine, but don't blame me if it blows up in your hands."
In
SUNCREST HEIGHTS. A simple slice of life, apartment roleplay anyone?
→
7 yrs ago
Forum: Casual Interest Checks
I'm in.
<Snipped quote by Roughdragon1>
Kalshnikov! Fucking. Called it. Come to daddy my little babushka...
I hope it was alright that I made a throwaway comment about Griks smelling unpleasant. I dunno, maybe they smell like a fresh summer breeze or something.
"Fuckin' prick." He mumbled under his breath as a man pulled him to the front row. Apparently, his weapon had jammed. Now, he was going to be among the first soldiers torn apart by Griks. That was a less than appealing prospect. His anger towards he soldier with the malfunctioning rifle was misplaced, he knew. He should be angry at the Bulwark for having a murder-boner for humanity. He should be angry at Command, for essentially giving him a death sentence in the form of a conscription notice. He should not be angry with the man with the broken rifle. He was glad that his words had been masked by the gunfire and shots. He hadn't even heard himself.
He took his place among the line, sweat pooling on his forehead. He felt sick. The Griks charged, steady as a flood. That was the thing about floods, it didn't matter how much water you bailed out with a bucket, someone's floor was still getting ruined. Granted, it wasn't like there was a whole lot of options. All they could do was keep bailing out water, and hope it didn't rise and damage grandma's photo album.
Maybe that wasn't the best analogy.
He shook his head, and raised his rifle. If he turned back now, some meathead with a little too much zeal would cap him in the head. He had no choice. He aimed at the oncoming wave, and squeezed the trigger. Declan was not a good shot. Hell, he was barely passable. Two weeks was not enough time to become a badass. That didn't matter, when facing a Grik Charge. If you shot, you'd hit something. His first few shots pattered into Grik torsos, slowing a few of them down, but only nominally. His sixth shot hit one dead in the face. It fell, and the one dead behind it tripped over it.
Declan chuckled.
It didn't make sense. He was staring death in the face, and laughing about slapstick humor. He must've been hysterical, to laugh at an alien falling over.
He kept shooting. Three kills in total, with 15 shots. He was far from efficient. The Griks were worryingly closer than they'd been when he started shooting. He stepped back, into the crowd.
"Reloading! Someone fill in!" Sure enough, someone slipped into his spot. The air around him smelled of gunpowder. He supposed it was better than smelling sweat, fear, blood, or the rancid stench of Griks. He started reloading his weapon, noticing that his hands weren't shaking as much now. He supposed, if they kept up like this, they had a chance of holding back the Griks. What worried him was what came after. Griks were meat shields. Where were the Argon? The Brumak? God, he hoped there wasn't a Brumak. He didn't see any heavy weapons around him. He ended up next to the man who'd pulled him into the fray, the man with the malfunctioning rifle. He'd survived, so he wasn't about to hold a grudge. He wanted to say something.
Hi! I'm Declan. Please remember me if Griks eat my kidneys!
He opted instead to nod at him, hoping he looked a little less terrified than he had before.
He took his place among the line, sweat pooling on his forehead. He felt sick. The Griks charged, steady as a flood. That was the thing about floods, it didn't matter how much water you bailed out with a bucket, someone's floor was still getting ruined. Granted, it wasn't like there was a whole lot of options. All they could do was keep bailing out water, and hope it didn't rise and damage grandma's photo album.
Maybe that wasn't the best analogy.
He shook his head, and raised his rifle. If he turned back now, some meathead with a little too much zeal would cap him in the head. He had no choice. He aimed at the oncoming wave, and squeezed the trigger. Declan was not a good shot. Hell, he was barely passable. Two weeks was not enough time to become a badass. That didn't matter, when facing a Grik Charge. If you shot, you'd hit something. His first few shots pattered into Grik torsos, slowing a few of them down, but only nominally. His sixth shot hit one dead in the face. It fell, and the one dead behind it tripped over it.
Declan chuckled.
It didn't make sense. He was staring death in the face, and laughing about slapstick humor. He must've been hysterical, to laugh at an alien falling over.
He kept shooting. Three kills in total, with 15 shots. He was far from efficient. The Griks were worryingly closer than they'd been when he started shooting. He stepped back, into the crowd.
"Reloading! Someone fill in!" Sure enough, someone slipped into his spot. The air around him smelled of gunpowder. He supposed it was better than smelling sweat, fear, blood, or the rancid stench of Griks. He started reloading his weapon, noticing that his hands weren't shaking as much now. He supposed, if they kept up like this, they had a chance of holding back the Griks. What worried him was what came after. Griks were meat shields. Where were the Argon? The Brumak? God, he hoped there wasn't a Brumak. He didn't see any heavy weapons around him. He ended up next to the man who'd pulled him into the fray, the man with the malfunctioning rifle. He'd survived, so he wasn't about to hold a grudge. He wanted to say something.
Hi! I'm Declan. Please remember me if Griks eat my kidneys!
He opted instead to nod at him, hoping he looked a little less terrified than he had before.
I'm working on a post. Should be up within the next few hours.
There were a few attempts at conversation, while the Partisans walked toward the meeting place. They might've been in enemy territory, but they were keeping it quiet. Everytime they started to speak, however, Felix would cut them off with a phrase that Thomas knew well.
"Ferme ta gueule!" He'd hiss. "Shut the fuck up."
So, they did. The harsh silence broken only by the occasional gust of wind, and the sounds of their travel. The shifting of gravel, the just-a-bit-too-loud breathing, the shifting of their gear. They walked down side-road, and stopped everytime they came close to a patrol.
"Lot of Krauts out today." Edouard noted.
"Aye. This isn't normal. I don't think we've ever dealt with this many patrols." Thomas agreed. This was most disturbing. Perhaps whatever information the Nazis got from the Polish Partisans had them riled up. Perhaps some high-ranking Kraut was coming to meet with the Vichy, and the extra patrols. It didn't matter to Thomas and the others. All it meant was an increase in difficulty.
"Just means more heads to put bullets in." Anna said, speaking for the first time since they'd left the hideout. The Russian sharpshooter spoke with such confidence that even Thomas, the least warlike of the group, found himself almost hoping for contact. Almost. They carried on, dodging often to the side of the road to hide from the passing Wehrmacht. It was not a pleasant journey, but it passed mostly without incident.
Mostly.
They were nearly to the meeting place when they saw him, lying on the side of the road. Blonde hair plastered to his head by blood and sweat, his grey uniform stained red, his blue eyes full of fear. He weakly raised an arm. The Partisans looked to each other for confirmation, then stepped toward him, guns at the ready. The fallen Nazi was in even worse shape upon closer inspection. His wounds were savage and deep, as though he'd been mauled.
They expected him to ask for help. Help that they would have to deny. To their surprise, the Wehrmacht wanted no such thing.
"Tue-moi." He rapsed. It was French.
Kill me.
The soldier couldn't have been older than twenty, yet he was begging for death. Though his eyes were clouded by pain, Thomas couldn't shake the feeling that the soldier wasn't chasing death as an escape from it. Thomas frowned. Death, wounds, suffering. It was a part of war, and he was a soldier. If only that made seeing dying people any easier. Pointless suffering, borne of pointless violence.
What am I doing here? He asked himself, not for the first time. Before he could ponder further, the boy spoke again.
"Tue-moi!" Likely the only French he knew, spoken in desperation.
"We're not going to get anything out of him." Thomas said, sighing. "What's the harm in taking him out?"
"I agree." Edouard said, hesitantly. "Of all the gifts we might give to a Nazi, a merciful death is the easiest."
"He doesn't deserve mercy." Anna spat. "Would he do the same for you?"
"Maybe not." Edouard said.
"I'm not wasting one of my bullets on a fucking Nazi." Felix grumbled. "You can knock yourselves out, but hurry up about it."
Neither Anna nor Edouard moved. Gerard, the ever-silent giant of a Frenchman followed Felix as they walked up the road a few steps. Bernard remained silent.
"I don't think I can't shoot an unarmed man." Edouard said, with his head down.
"What, you want me to?" Anna scoffed.
"No." Edouaro was looking at Thomas.
"Ed, I-" He stopped, unsure of what to say.
I don't want to kill him either.
The Partisan produced his sidearm, one that had recently belonged to one of the unlucky Poles. He held it, handle-first to Thomas. The Irishman hesitated for a moment, before sighing and grabbing it. A revolver, a Nagant, if he was correct. Loaded and cocked already. He looked at the Nazi. Fear in the boy's eyes, but determination behind it.
"Bitte." He whispered. German for please. Thomas sighed. He aimed the revolver down at his head. The soldier began talking again, but clearly not to Thomas. "Gott vergib mir." Tears welled in his eyes. Thomas closed his own, then pulled the trigger. When he opened them, the German was dead, a bullet hole square in his face that looked paltry compared to the gashes across his body. He turned to Edouard, the pistol held out. The Partisan shook his head.
"Keep it."
So, he did.
They arrived late. Thomas hoped this wasn't to become a patern. The meeting place was quiet, and the Partisans readied their weapons. It was quiet. Felix broke the silence, calling out in English.
"Is anyone here?"
They couldn't see inside the farmhouse. Thomas only hoped that the answer wasn't spoken by a German.
"Ferme ta gueule!" He'd hiss. "Shut the fuck up."
So, they did. The harsh silence broken only by the occasional gust of wind, and the sounds of their travel. The shifting of gravel, the just-a-bit-too-loud breathing, the shifting of their gear. They walked down side-road, and stopped everytime they came close to a patrol.
"Lot of Krauts out today." Edouard noted.
"Aye. This isn't normal. I don't think we've ever dealt with this many patrols." Thomas agreed. This was most disturbing. Perhaps whatever information the Nazis got from the Polish Partisans had them riled up. Perhaps some high-ranking Kraut was coming to meet with the Vichy, and the extra patrols. It didn't matter to Thomas and the others. All it meant was an increase in difficulty.
"Just means more heads to put bullets in." Anna said, speaking for the first time since they'd left the hideout. The Russian sharpshooter spoke with such confidence that even Thomas, the least warlike of the group, found himself almost hoping for contact. Almost. They carried on, dodging often to the side of the road to hide from the passing Wehrmacht. It was not a pleasant journey, but it passed mostly without incident.
Mostly.
They were nearly to the meeting place when they saw him, lying on the side of the road. Blonde hair plastered to his head by blood and sweat, his grey uniform stained red, his blue eyes full of fear. He weakly raised an arm. The Partisans looked to each other for confirmation, then stepped toward him, guns at the ready. The fallen Nazi was in even worse shape upon closer inspection. His wounds were savage and deep, as though he'd been mauled.
They expected him to ask for help. Help that they would have to deny. To their surprise, the Wehrmacht wanted no such thing.
"Tue-moi." He rapsed. It was French.
Kill me.
The soldier couldn't have been older than twenty, yet he was begging for death. Though his eyes were clouded by pain, Thomas couldn't shake the feeling that the soldier wasn't chasing death as an escape from it. Thomas frowned. Death, wounds, suffering. It was a part of war, and he was a soldier. If only that made seeing dying people any easier. Pointless suffering, borne of pointless violence.
What am I doing here? He asked himself, not for the first time. Before he could ponder further, the boy spoke again.
"Tue-moi!" Likely the only French he knew, spoken in desperation.
"We're not going to get anything out of him." Thomas said, sighing. "What's the harm in taking him out?"
"I agree." Edouard said, hesitantly. "Of all the gifts we might give to a Nazi, a merciful death is the easiest."
"He doesn't deserve mercy." Anna spat. "Would he do the same for you?"
"Maybe not." Edouard said.
"I'm not wasting one of my bullets on a fucking Nazi." Felix grumbled. "You can knock yourselves out, but hurry up about it."
Neither Anna nor Edouard moved. Gerard, the ever-silent giant of a Frenchman followed Felix as they walked up the road a few steps. Bernard remained silent.
"I don't think I can't shoot an unarmed man." Edouard said, with his head down.
"What, you want me to?" Anna scoffed.
"No." Edouaro was looking at Thomas.
"Ed, I-" He stopped, unsure of what to say.
I don't want to kill him either.
The Partisan produced his sidearm, one that had recently belonged to one of the unlucky Poles. He held it, handle-first to Thomas. The Irishman hesitated for a moment, before sighing and grabbing it. A revolver, a Nagant, if he was correct. Loaded and cocked already. He looked at the Nazi. Fear in the boy's eyes, but determination behind it.
"Bitte." He whispered. German for please. Thomas sighed. He aimed the revolver down at his head. The soldier began talking again, but clearly not to Thomas. "Gott vergib mir." Tears welled in his eyes. Thomas closed his own, then pulled the trigger. When he opened them, the German was dead, a bullet hole square in his face that looked paltry compared to the gashes across his body. He turned to Edouard, the pistol held out. The Partisan shook his head.
"Keep it."
So, he did.
They arrived late. Thomas hoped this wasn't to become a patern. The meeting place was quiet, and the Partisans readied their weapons. It was quiet. Felix broke the silence, calling out in English.
"Is anyone here?"
They couldn't see inside the farmhouse. Thomas only hoped that the answer wasn't spoken by a German.
"With the kingdom badly damaged, the queen made the ultimate decision to rob the peasants of their money by raising taxes. The peasants grew enraged by this decision, and even more pressure was placed upon Laurelin to set things right when she became queen..."
That doesn't actively say "insurrection subplot," but I sure do hope that's what it's implying.
© 2007-2024