Jig

Wink Murder

All drugs and no food makes Jig a stressed GM
All drugs and no food makes Jig a stressed GM
All drugs and no food makes Jig a stressed GM

Delete A Post Please

Derp.

Wink Murder

I got in from a four-hour being-lost-in-Amsterdam-sesh absolutely wasted, freezing my tits off, and barely able to stay awake. That I posted anything at all deserves at least a

Jigtried

Wink Murder

_{What's that sound?}

Jigwins

@Jig

Corrections, if applicable, have been applied.

That leaves the score at an undisputed

Jigwins
That's
Jigwins
while
Wadeloses

And so we turn to the spectators at this exciting part of the game and the verdict is unanimous; it looks as though Jig is winning. That's right, after a strong early play and a strong defence of the undisputed state of winning that Jig had achieved, it looks as though victory, both short and long-term, will belong, and indeed already does, to our very own Jig.

Back to you in the studio ♫

Wink Murder

Jig dont win. Jig needs to find a new pic because his ain't working.

@ReaptheMusic

Sorry, I can't hear you over the sound of your browser malfunctioning.

And the jury's back for this stunning announcement-
"All wins and loses are reinstated as originally decreed."

Jigwins
Wadeloses
AuntFlavialoses
ReaptheMusicloses
Jig. Wins.
JIG
WINS

---

Ahem. I hope apart from this unfortunate incident, everybody is enjoying the game.

Wink Murder

I see your piggies and raise you an anteater.

_{What's that sound?}

Jigwins

Wink Murder

That's kewl. Before you post, I'll send you a very little something to tack on the end of it (so if you're about to, and I haven't, let me know and I'll rustle something up).

Character Descriptions

Personally, I think it looks silly when you start bringing numbers into descriptions. Like "Mary Sue was 6 foot 7 inches." or "John Doe was 152 pounds." This isn't crazy unprofessional or anything, i've seen published writers I really like do this plenty of times, but for me personally it always seems clinical as fuck. The weirdest I seen is B/W/H measurements for women.

My own way of doing descriptions is to pick out a few features that stand out and otherwise stay vague. Something like "Robertito was a stocky, big-boned man with an oily handlebar mustache and eyes that gave the impression that he was way too clever for his own good."

@Vilageidiotx

Definitely with you here.

Project Rehab

The process of adaptation had been an easy one. Life was now about convenience, and, therefore, about compromise. He could make life convenient for others and they could make life convenient for him. His bare feet swung to the ground, and he felt the greenish grey paste between his toes. It gently retreated under his weight, but softy swallowed the soles of his feet around the sides. He was used to it.

A tap from behind the mirror (or, as they called it outside the cell, ‘window’) - Whatshisface’s stick. Apparently he had visitors, but that was their bad luck. They knew by now that he didn’t talk to Whatshisface. He could just about hear the man’s voice through the pane of glass, although he could only see himself staring back, wearing nothing but a baggy pair of shorts, hair unkempt, shiny tracks of sweat just catching the light across his body.

"Mr. Leon something something Stain. something something less violent patients. He merely suffers from something something.”

“Speak up! I need that diagnosis!” Leon knew there would be no response. It had been agreed by all relevant parties that Whatshisface would deal with Leon Smythe only when nobody else could do it and that, in return, Leon Smythe would try not to antagonise Whatshisface. Still, sometimes it just had to be done - especially given that they were probably talking about his ’impulse control issues’.

“something something generate a corrosive slime something something"

As though on cue, Leon could feel a trickle of sweat run from his neck down his breast, where it gently congealed and clung to the hairs on his chest. He lazily wiped it off and flicked it at the mirror, where it splattered and drooped, visible only due to its pea-green hue. He couldn’t hear Whatshisface anymore. He must have moved on. Still, he’d probably be back. He had never once been presented as an exhibit without later being explored in the flesh.

He’d been prodded and probed so often that he’d given up on shame, as a concept, and was by now quite happy to traipse around his cell, or anywhere else he was permitted to go, totally or mostly naked. It made life more convenient. He didn’t have to worry about burning his clothes off and they didn’t have to worry about providing an infinite supply of clothes for him to burn. Even the powdered chalk that layered the floor was a concession to necessity; they had originally used a custom-built tiles that resisted the slime before realising that it wouldn’t simply drain and would leak instead into the corridor – the chalk collected and neutralised the slime and simply had to be swept up as and when. In return for behaving on ‘clean-up day’, he would get a say in who came to do it and access to privileges, as evidenced by the empty fast food wrappers and empty cans of soft drinks that lay about his cell.

With that in mind, he got up out of his hammock – another concession to convenience, for, while he tended to burn through mattresses, a string hammock allowed slime to drain – and stumbled over the unevenly smooth or claggy chalk ground to the door when it opened automatically, pausing only to swipe up a bottle of half-finished Gatorade. His adam’s apple visibly bounced as he glugged down the sweet yellow liquid.

He spent less than one second in the training area: it wasn’t just his own ‘guestroom’ that had opened, but everybody’s, meaning that the outside now contained both Whatshisface and Cortez the psycho – friendly faces only by the most perverse stretches of the imagination. Touching his neck, he hung back, lurking in the metallic doorframe and tried to take her in, but found his eyes constantly flicking back to Whatshisface and Cortez, just in case.