pugbutter Member
STATUS: Fuck yeah, girlfriend. Sit on that ass! Collect that unemployment check! Have free time 'n shit! 1 yr ago
- Last Seen: 5 days ago
- Joined: 10 yrs ago
- Posts: 1487 (0.42 / day)
- VMs: 20
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- pugbutter 10 yrs ago
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Chronic,
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1 yr ago
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Fuck yeah, girlfriend. Sit on that ass! Collect that unemployment check! Have free time 'n shit!
4
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3 yrs ago
Apologies to all writing partners both current & prospective. Been sick for two weeks straight (and have to go to work regardless). No energy. Can't think straight. Taking a hiatus. Sorry again.
3
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3 yrs ago
[@Ralt] He's making either a Fallout 4 reference or a S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Clear Sky reference i can't tell
2
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3 yrs ago
"Well EXCUUUUSE ME if my RPs don't have plot, setting, characters, any artistry of language like imagery/symbolism, or any of the things half-decent fiction has! What am I supposed to do, improve?!"
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3 yrs ago
Where's the personality? The flavor? the drama? The struggle? The humanity? The texture of the time and the place in which this conversation is happening? In a word: where's the story?
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Skovgard checked the charts one last time as he slung his coat, tailored immaculately, over his rigid shoulders. He was too late, of course; Ona had clocked out already, so the readings had all flatlined. He didn't have the warrants needed to check her levels when she wasn't at work, but still, he was tempted. He didn't override the system only because he knew it would come back to bite him later. He had people watching him, after all, just like she did.
Poor girl. He'd given her the chance to turn herself around, as she'd requested, rather than chasing the legal channels to force her into a psych's chair, or that of an aeroplane cabin heading to Dubai or Rio de Janeiro or the star-city. Now she had to make good on her promise. For her own sake.
"So what happened, Ona? You all right?" Jules asked. He wanted to know for his own sake, of course—whether directly, or in the form of his partner being taken away for other obligations around the company—but somehow it seemed impolite to mention that fact. Selfish. Anyway, she didn't answer, and that only meant it was something sensitive. He wondered, but didn't press her further. He was like that elsewhere, too: avoiding participating in cubicle gossip, but being unable to stop himself from eavesdropping, speculating.
Back to the grind. Soon enough he was home again, and this time, in the first night since he'd returned from his trip, he had the time and the energy about him to clean up a little. Food in the fridge which had gone rancid was discarded. The hoard of clothes atop the living room chair was divided, and sorted into neater places. The suitcase was half-unpacked, just to keep the shirts and slacks from getting attached to their wrinkles. The rest remained in that little pleather cocoon as distraction and diversion beckoned for Jules, who sat in front of his screens, and besides getting up for a drink or a bite of something cheap, salty, and instant, did not move til after midnight, when he knew it was time to get his six hours for another day at work.
Tedious. Monotonous. Well, at least it wasn't dangerous. Would it be worth getting out of this droning beehive if it meant having a point-one-percent chance every day of being in a tunnel collapse, or an oil spill, or any other workplace danger? Tucking himself in that night, like so many other nights, he dreamed of having the courage to tell these people where to stuff it. He imagined being a globetrotter and a philanthropist, having just enough money to never worry about food and shelter, but not enough to allure him to one place for long. In this fantasy world he needed no one but himself, answering to no paycheck but his own. And when he woke up he couldn't remember what he'd dreamed about; neither in sleep nor in the restless turning before.
Poor girl. He'd given her the chance to turn herself around, as she'd requested, rather than chasing the legal channels to force her into a psych's chair, or that of an aeroplane cabin heading to Dubai or Rio de Janeiro or the star-city. Now she had to make good on her promise. For her own sake.
"So what happened, Ona? You all right?" Jules asked. He wanted to know for his own sake, of course—whether directly, or in the form of his partner being taken away for other obligations around the company—but somehow it seemed impolite to mention that fact. Selfish. Anyway, she didn't answer, and that only meant it was something sensitive. He wondered, but didn't press her further. He was like that elsewhere, too: avoiding participating in cubicle gossip, but being unable to stop himself from eavesdropping, speculating.
Back to the grind. Soon enough he was home again, and this time, in the first night since he'd returned from his trip, he had the time and the energy about him to clean up a little. Food in the fridge which had gone rancid was discarded. The hoard of clothes atop the living room chair was divided, and sorted into neater places. The suitcase was half-unpacked, just to keep the shirts and slacks from getting attached to their wrinkles. The rest remained in that little pleather cocoon as distraction and diversion beckoned for Jules, who sat in front of his screens, and besides getting up for a drink or a bite of something cheap, salty, and instant, did not move til after midnight, when he knew it was time to get his six hours for another day at work.
Tedious. Monotonous. Well, at least it wasn't dangerous. Would it be worth getting out of this droning beehive if it meant having a point-one-percent chance every day of being in a tunnel collapse, or an oil spill, or any other workplace danger? Tucking himself in that night, like so many other nights, he dreamed of having the courage to tell these people where to stuff it. He imagined being a globetrotter and a philanthropist, having just enough money to never worry about food and shelter, but not enough to allure him to one place for long. In this fantasy world he needed no one but himself, answering to no paycheck but his own. And when he woke up he couldn't remember what he'd dreamed about; neither in sleep nor in the restless turning before.
Go ahead. :)
He watched her a long time, a very long time, without saying a word. Ona could not quite determine whether it was full-blown disbelief churning there behind his icy eyes, or mere skepticism; anger at having been lied to? Pity. Perhaps he was making up his mind himself on that matter, of how he wanted to feel in response to her words. He seemed cool about it, controlled; truly he had choice picks.
Finally something cracked in him, and he deigned to reply in words, recognizing, perhaps, that she would be no help in probing his brain, and helping him to sort and categorize the many things he thought and felt about this matter: "Well, let's not keep them waiting, then. You're excused, Ms. Ví. Health and happiness." Abruptly he was pretending she didn't exist; he turned his attention back the screen, and started clicking away, as if she'd evaporated, or had never existed at all, a mere phantom haunting the office.
He'd typed three letters—"E L L"— into a search directory. He scrolled through the jungle of Ellises and Ellingtons and Ellens. Finally he had navigated his way to the Elliotts. Dozens of them existed throughout the company's many branches, but very few were Elliotts, A.J.
Skovgard brought up the charts and he sighed. If only Alan's habits would rub off on his coworker! His vacations, while a bit frequent, were well-paced, to begin. What else did he do to keep his stress low and his productivity high, wondered the director? If he wasn't so quiet during breaks he could probably be persuaded to give a talk to the struggling employees.
When Ona had returned to the control room, Jewel was just screwing the cap back onto his flask, his chair pushed off against the wall where the cameras couldn't see. "Just finished the fourth one," he said. It was a lie, of course. He'd finished it ten minutes ago, and he was taking a micro-nap behind the anonymity of the one-way mirror. Ona had come back sooner than he expected, so although his hands were sluggish in returning the booze to the inside pocket of his windbreaker, with antithetical speed he kicked his wheeled chair back toward the dials and knobs of the control panels.
He didn't try to hide it from her anymore. He hadn't tried in months or years by then (they'd lost count). The hoard of breath mints in his desk betrayed him even when the stink of his sweat didn't.
Finally something cracked in him, and he deigned to reply in words, recognizing, perhaps, that she would be no help in probing his brain, and helping him to sort and categorize the many things he thought and felt about this matter: "Well, let's not keep them waiting, then. You're excused, Ms. Ví. Health and happiness." Abruptly he was pretending she didn't exist; he turned his attention back the screen, and started clicking away, as if she'd evaporated, or had never existed at all, a mere phantom haunting the office.
He'd typed three letters—"E L L"— into a search directory. He scrolled through the jungle of Ellises and Ellingtons and Ellens. Finally he had navigated his way to the Elliotts. Dozens of them existed throughout the company's many branches, but very few were Elliotts, A.J.
Skovgard brought up the charts and he sighed. If only Alan's habits would rub off on his coworker! His vacations, while a bit frequent, were well-paced, to begin. What else did he do to keep his stress low and his productivity high, wondered the director? If he wasn't so quiet during breaks he could probably be persuaded to give a talk to the struggling employees.
When Ona had returned to the control room, Jewel was just screwing the cap back onto his flask, his chair pushed off against the wall where the cameras couldn't see. "Just finished the fourth one," he said. It was a lie, of course. He'd finished it ten minutes ago, and he was taking a micro-nap behind the anonymity of the one-way mirror. Ona had come back sooner than he expected, so although his hands were sluggish in returning the booze to the inside pocket of his windbreaker, with antithetical speed he kicked his wheeled chair back toward the dials and knobs of the control panels.
He didn't try to hide it from her anymore. He hadn't tried in months or years by then (they'd lost count). The hoard of breath mints in his desk betrayed him even when the stink of his sweat didn't.
@Hostile This is already assumed when you go two months without posting in a thread. But thanks for making it formal/official.
@The Harbinger of Ferocity The "points" of weapons tended to be designed for stopping the weapons from glancing off smooth, angled plate pieces. The spikes on a morningstar, for example. Not for actually stabbing into the plate.
"Wake me when it's over," Troy mumbled, twisting a radio dial until it clicked, and silence crackled throughout the cockpit.
Although—...
It struck him as a queer thing, that battle formation; not to mention their numbers. Usually mercs were smarter than this. Running headlong at the enemy, when they were already outnumbered and outflanked? Maybe they didn't realize resistance awaited them here, guarding this little backwoods port-a-potty of a factory—but if they did know, if they'd anticipated the Ghosts being there...
Troy clicked the radio back on.
"—you're going to be a good boy and record every shot—"
"Chri-ist!" He flipped it off again. Still, he knew the air smelt funny. The same way they said that you know death when you smell it, even if putrescine and cadaverine had never invaded your nostrils before, Troy, despite his inexperience in the matter, was sure this is what an ambush smelled like, rancid but faint, distant. So he didn't watch the western hemisphere on his radar, instead training his blurry vision on the east, expecting something, anything, to blink up at the flanks of the radar screen. Not like they needed his help cutting down three Racers anyway.
Although—...
It struck him as a queer thing, that battle formation; not to mention their numbers. Usually mercs were smarter than this. Running headlong at the enemy, when they were already outnumbered and outflanked? Maybe they didn't realize resistance awaited them here, guarding this little backwoods port-a-potty of a factory—but if they did know, if they'd anticipated the Ghosts being there...
Troy clicked the radio back on.
"—you're going to be a good boy and record every shot—"
"Chri-ist!" He flipped it off again. Still, he knew the air smelt funny. The same way they said that you know death when you smell it, even if putrescine and cadaverine had never invaded your nostrils before, Troy, despite his inexperience in the matter, was sure this is what an ambush smelled like, rancid but faint, distant. So he didn't watch the western hemisphere on his radar, instead training his blurry vision on the east, expecting something, anything, to blink up at the flanks of the radar screen. Not like they needed his help cutting down three Racers anyway.
In
Let's B!tch. I feel it's a healthy release for our roleplay annoyances 2.0
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8 yrs ago
Forum: Roleplaying Discussion
@Mr Allen J excuse me, my character has heterochromia and it makes them super special. Other children bullied my character because of it, and it deeply scarred my character. But even though they act like they have no emotions, deep inside they really want to make friends.
If you dare say that that isn't a good character, I swear...
It's some 'hehh....... not bad, kid.......' shit.
Even though you basically just described the best character in LotGH, I do generally agree with this.
okay, maybe not "tomorrow" tomorrow. Still a lot busier than I'd like to be. But I'm writing a reply soon-ish.
- Why do you, a D&D spam bot, continue to plague our forum with topics that don't do anything? This was a very convincing topic, except that you called yourself "Eric the mad." And then your other 3 posts were topics about D&D.
Aw, fuck. You're right. I got fuckin' played again. They're getting smarter (or I'm still dumb).
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