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Post by Deleted on Jan 6, 2011 12:00:09 GMT -6
(Here's my first story; I said it would be out tomorrow (Friday), but I was anxious to get it out. I have played DR2 but not the "Case" downloadables, so if there are any contradictions or gap-fillers from Cases Zero or West, you probably know about them more than I do (I have been unable to connect to Xbox Live for some reason). I do hope you guys enjoy this, at any rate; I'll try to come out with another one sometime next week hopefully).
MAINTENANCE MERGENCES #1: Chuck’s Cageyness and the Whole Keiji Mess Only another thirty-five minutes or so, and the military brass were coming to get them all. It was the fourth day that Chuck Greene and the others had been cooped up in the safehouse…well, at least the most of them, with Chuck itinerantly speeding about from place to place in Fortune to get more and more of them. Just a few items were all Chuck needed at this point, and he could huff on back to the safehouse safe and sound once again. It was just a matter of getting the necessary PP. No, not Prestige Points. Or that other PP, either (matters are contaminated enough as is, what with casinoloads of zombies milling and moaning around…let’s keep the dirtiness down, shall we?) See, over the course of the last three or four days he had obtained the necessary means for his daughter’s survival through pharmaceutical, paramedical, postal, and plump-paunchy-pudgy-portly-person-al (ie Richard Kelly) means. PP, to Chuck, meant “P_____ Procurement”…all for the sake of picking up Zombrex. Chuck was indeed inventing his very own lexicon while here in Fortune City…”p(a)wnage” could, yes, refer to his perennial pouncing upon unsuspecting undead…but it would, more prominently in his near future, mean a jaunt to the nearest pawnshop—looters, looming more creepily, honestly, than a humvee full of zombies—the next kind of “P” he would probably need to deal with, he’d figured, in order for him to score his fifth dosage of Zombrex for his beloved daughter. And oh, how utterly, unimaginably grateful that precocious Katey Greene was. Sending her father out to accumulate a whole plush menagerie for her—the blue donkey, the brown bull, the pink elephant—even after he had secured nothing less than a live flesh and blood Bengali tiger for her as her very own pet. Yes, in this small control environment full of flesh-devouring creatures from casino to casino, there was nothing like a giant carnivorous predator to put a once-munched-upon-already single-digit-aged daughter at ease. And yet, Katey would look up at Chuck reassuringly from her position on the cat-cohabitated-couch, waving her zombie-bite-scarred arm at him as she ran her hand up and down Snowflake’s fur, the latter purring back, satisfied. When Chuck had brought the sizeable synthetic animals, Katey started getting them all in a semicircle, then carrying them here and there and such. The harried hero figured she was trying to emulate him, imitating her father in pantomimes of rescues to get survivors to safety. But then, a straggler grab or so later, he’d come back to Katey: “Daddy, I heard Jacob say something ‘bout giant dice out in the casino outside our safehouse…” And then a couple of runs after this, during which he’d procured said die…oh, Katey and her fluffy animals were in a configuration alright. But it wasn’t about search and rescue. “Come on, seven!” he’d heard his daughter say, to the bewilderment of Sullivan and others around, in the space near the bathrooms. He then caught sight of her…and the huge bumbling red die she was pushing around…and the donkey and the bull and the elephant, with about two or three hundred in cash at the foot of each. And about $10,000 right next to the telltale “Puff Puff” backpack lying on the end. “I gave her some scratch for play money,” explained Janus, elbowing Chuck playfully. “I figured, what the hell.” What the hell, indeed, Chuck thought, wondering really what the hell was happening to his daughter. Besides nearly missing “turning” every morning. When she grew bored of this, she’d left the beastly runner-ups to the mercy of Snowflake, who’d welcomed them with open jaws in their new capacity as his newest chew toys. *********************** Now it was another several hours later, with only a little while to go before the soldiers’ splashdown. Our hero was still pushing through Palisades, planning to go the long way and not take Linette’s jaunty shortcut out of a need to stock up on a variety of foods for himself, Stacey, Rebecca, Sullivan, Richard, Stuart, Vikki, Randolph, Royce, Walter, and yes of course his daughter. As Chuck pressed forward, pacing past the Shanks, he thought about the several conversations he’d had with Katey since her unbecoming craps rout. Chuck recalled that, many hours ago, he was in the room with Stacey and Snowflake, taking the three-minute (in our time, yes, fifteen seconds) vacation he always gave himself before pushing back out into the plazas. “Daddy,” began Katey, from her ordinary couch-potato position—from which she was starting to migrate periodically and alarmingly, “I really appreciate all you’ve done, in getting my medicine and the toys.” “Oh honey, it’s nothing,” said Chuck. “It’s the least I can do, considering things.” He was thinking about his soul companion, her mother, the one they had lost back in Vegas (the real Strip, not the unnecessary superfluous faux one that was Fortune City). “And I managed to beat Mega Man, just a couple of hours ago,” she offered idly, sort of hinting. Chuck nodded, staring emptily into the twirling atoms of dust in the security camera room air. “As…as much as I appreciate all you’ve done…I wouldn’t mind, perhaps, Daddy…if you could please please…do a bit more again.” Chuck looked sideways, out of the corner of his eye at his daughter. “What…what do you mean, honey?” “Well, like I said, I’ve beaten one of the recent Mega Man games—one of them,” she started, emphatically stressing the “one” so that the word pretty much launched into her father’s face. “I kind of…sort of wouldn’t mind if you perhaps managed to get a few more for me.” “Now where would I...” Chuck started, as he could swear that he never saw any videogame places out in the various sections of the City. “I’ve saw on security feeds that some of the Tape It Or Dies have a stash in their hideout…maybe, Daddy, you can go and scare up some from them…even if you might have to pay a little. I just need all of what’s on this little list here.” There were about thirteen games on the list, all for what appeared to be a Playstation Portable, but wasn’t. (It was actually a portable emulator which Katey had forced Chuck to get from looters in Vegas, just before the two of them got out of dodge; among others, it played prototypes of games that weren’t even out yet to the mass public and might not be out for several years, if ever). “The ones I want the most are the Mega Man Battle Network games.” Then she looked up, at a corner of the room, as if gazing directly into some imagined camera mounted there, and said, “Be sure to check out the new Mega Man Battle Network 70, designed by Keiji Inafune, in stores now!” (This one was available to the purchasing public.) This made Chuck blanch somewhat, Stacey turn from her watchperson position at the security controls, and even Snowflake perk his head up and growl at bit. Chuck figured it was just a bit of cabin fever with his daughter, though. He sighed, then seconds later gave in. “Alright, alright, anything for my little Kateykins. Anything else you need?” Katey looked up at the ceiling a second. Then: “Well, it might be sweet of you if you maybe got me a pretty knit cap and one piece pajama. You can get it at Small Fry Duds, I saw them from the security feeds. I kind of need it, …for him.” She muttered this last phrase under her breath. “What? Who?” “Oh, nothing Daddy.” She reached over and ruffled the mane of the once psychotic but now inexplicably gentle Snowflake. (Yes, I know about the steaks, but still, beings get hungry again, you know? And that was like three days ago). “I can’t wait till you get back again.” “Me neither, my precious Freedom Cub.” Chuck stepped out again into the security hallway, to once more take on the zombified zones of Fortune City. *********************** The motocross champ was crossing Donatucci’s, grabbing lobsters off counters (as he might have done similarly in an alternate reality with a better ending, snatching lobsters off of the cement underfoot to put directly into his mouth for energy while fighting a wayward final enemy firing at him from above), while he thought of what happened thereafter in the security area. “Honey, I managed to get you most of what you asked for…Ultimate Apocalyptic Ghouls n’ Ghosts n’ Goblins, Super Duper Street Fighter 5 Hyper ADHD Returning Defending Champion Edition, and two of the three Mega Man Battle Network titles you wanted me to get.” “I see, Daddy,” said Katey, her face lighting up a bit especially at the last part. Not focusing at all on the four that Chuck did succeed in getting, she said, “Which…which one didn’t you manage to find?” Chuck crinkled his brow. “It was Mega Man Battle Network 69, honey. Johnny Pipes just didn’t have one on him.” “But that’s the best one!” “Look, honey, I went all over the place, I checked Children’s Castle, I checked the Robsakas. Okay? They just didn’t have it. …Oh, by the way, I also got the cap and PJs for you from Small Fry.” He threw the clothing to his daughter lightly (when before he might have handed them to her…he was getting a little impatient with her). “But you know that I just have to have all of them. I can’t believe that you couldn’t find…” “Katey, I told you, I went all over!” returned Chuck firmly, his voice a little raised. Paces away, Rebecca Chang was just coming back from interviewing some of the Looters, spinning their trade as a story on “capitalism thriving in the face of undead catastrophe.” “I’m telling you, I just couldn’t find it! I couldn’t get a 69 out there! I just couldn’t get a 69!” “Chuck ‘Still Creek Savior’ Greene!” purred Rebecca, as she alighted into the room. “That is not something you discuss with your young daughter.” He ran a worn hand across his face to straighten out all the excitement. “Now with me, of course,” she said a bit more softly, sauntering toward him in her inappropriately unsettling vampy come-on tones as she approached, “you can discuss matters such as this. In fact, I would be delighted to table this discussion for the not too distant future.” “That’s not what I meant, Becca,” said Chuck, also softly, so that his daughter didn’t hear. He didn’t want her to grow up too fast—though between her exposure to the undead hordes as well as her ever-increasing spirit of materialism, she was growing up pretty damn fast nonetheless. Still, he wanted to preserve some part of her innocence, while he could. “Well, it’s something we can…get into…later, at any rate.” By this point Rebecca was lustily circling Chuck so many times she was basically doing laps around him. “You’ll see why I work for…Action News…” “Alright, alright. Later,” he told her, Rebecca backing off at last. She smirked at him suggestively, then slinked off into another of the safehouse’s many rooms. Chuck of course didn’t really mean anything sexual when he mentioned the Mega Man sequel’s oversaturatingly high numeric designation…though he had to admit to himself that when he said to Katey “I was gonna get some right after the show,” just as the two reached the security camera area for the first time, he definitely wasn’t talking about Zombrex. And he’d also had saved… “Daddy, I was gonna ask you about this, too!” Katey piped up, pulling an envelope from the table upon which there was milk and OJ days before. She pointed: “This here…SUMMER FUN(D).” Are we gonna go somewhere again next summer? Are you gonna take me on that trip to Capcom Headquarters like I asked before? Are we gonna meet Keiji, like I always wanted?” At this point Chuck wanted to sit down, right next to Snowflake, bury his head in his hands, and wonder if he should want to have his head chomped off by the titanic, if tranquilized, tiger. “…Yes,” he lied, finally. “Yes, it was supposed to be a surprise, but yeah, I’m taking you there next June. Although I told you before, Keiji Inafune doesn’t reside on our version of Earth.” “Oh boy! I can’t wait anyway, Daddy!” Katey said, a bit more mollified after the trauma of not completing her Battle Network collection, uninterrupted up to 71. Chuck smiled sheepishly at her, shaking his head at one of Cora Russel’s “employees” who was walking past outside—the one for whom the envelope was originally intended, for use hopefully sometime in the next hour or so. Ah, well; there was still Rebecca. “Maybe I’ll be able to get Battle Network 69 then, Daddy,” she added, pointedly, at Chuck. As the hero was leaving once again, to risk his rear for the sake of friggin’ peace art, he could hear his daughter once again crowing up into an imaginary camera in a corner of the security room, “Be sure to pick up Dark Void -17—yet another “minus” prequel delving in the muddled past of Will Grey—Executively Produced by Keiji Inafune and in stores NOW!” *************************** Now Chuck was sprinting through passels of the creatures, busting open an occasional teller machine or two to bring the aforementioned “fun” funds back up. Hopefully he would be better able to hide these assets from his daughter next time. He thought about what she had asked him to do next. “I’m a bit tired of Mega Man and Arthur and Ryu and Wayne from Lost Planet Colonies Edition and Viewtiful Joe and Dante for right now, Daddy,” she had said. “I was wondering if you could possibly get me something to draw or paint with. I have some really fun pictures in my head I wanna draw.” Chuck opened and closed his mouth at this, refreshed somewhat that his daughter was at least asking for something that was not completely consumer-based, something creative and constructive instead. “Well, okay…what is it that you’d like?” “I want some of the spray paints that are out there—maybe like the green ones, like our last name, Daddy, we could live up to it and make everything green!—and some of those construction cones to mark off my work.” Chuck had kind of had it with making everything green or “going green” lately, having endured Vikki’s fetch favor and her own terrible pun on his surname. Still, he’d had a twenty-second wind, so he obliged her. In the ensuing hour and a half or so (his time), Chuck had recovered the artistic items Katey had requested, bestowed them unto his now-somewhat-beloved child, and had snatched up Lillian and her mother Camille to boot. He brought the older woman and her daughter back, then skipped up the stairs, ready once again to check on his daughter (as well as involuntarily check upon Snowflake). She wasn’t there. “What the hell?” he started, looking over at Ray, who was just leisurely hoofing into the room. “Where’s Katey?!” “I tried to stop her,” the seeming security guard said, near the doorway, “she was too fast for husky old me.” Chuck looked incredulously at Ray… …then looked in wide-eyed disbelief at the giant red door out and to the left. Between two of the three orange pylons Chuck had nabbed for his daughter were huge letters scrawled out in green: “KT + KG 4FR.” It was a good thing for Katey, too, that she managed to hide soundlessly inside the maintenance room just near to the airduct, while Chuck cantered past with his latest two survivors…good thing he didn’t need to make a tape-it pit stop then and there. Because now it could be seen, in the small enclosure, a small pair of hands barely clearing the tabletop, with a can of spray paint in one hand and the third pylon in the other, while painfully generic metal music played in the background. Minutes later, after wasted instants of fruitless searching: “Do you have any idea where she might have gotten to?” Chuck demanded, ready to pin Ray against the wall. “Any idea where she might be?” “Take it…take it easy, man. That cute little CURE number’s out there now, trying to get her to come back in. You must have just missed her.” “LET OUR CASINO MANAGEMENT KNOW THAT I WILL NOT STAND FOR THE SYSTEMATIC NEGLECT OF MY RELATIONSHIP WITH KEIJI INAFUNE!” It sounded like it was coming from the television inside the security camera room. Chuck hurried back into the security camera room a moment, ignoring Snowflake’s of course understandably booming restlessness, and stared. He couldn’t believe it. Out there—right out in Royal Plaza, atop the awning of the second floor Players, was Rebecca with her ever-present camcorder, filming her, his daughter, dressed in the duds Chuck secured for her from Small Fry (in an attempt to impress an Executive Producer from another reality), standing around with a taped-it makeshift airhorn. Somehow she managed to configure the device such a way that she could speak into it, rather than just make the horn’s head-exploding sound. “WE MUST TAKE DRASTIC ACTION NOW!” she finished, lowering the device and looking around at several zombies who couldn’t give a good damn about her cause. (As if ordinary humans would care, either). Regardless, Katey somehow managed to get her hands on the red/white/blue spray paint as well, and had graffitied KURE (which stood for Katey and keiji United across Related Earths, as she explained to Rebecca moments before) all across the windows and walls nearby. Fortunately for her, and for Chuck’s sanity, out rushing towards both Katey and Rebecca was Stacey Forsythe, finally taking action once again after enduring her three-day-long bout of the sedentary armchair-commanding disorder known as Otisitis. (Her case was not as severe or intrusive as that which occurred in Willamette, however, which was a plus for Chuck (and a minus for Frank, back then)). Stacey quickly whisked up Chuck’s daughter, shot Rebecca a condemningly sour look, and, accordingly, the three began to beat it back to the safehouse once more. Stacey, for one, couldn’t believe that things had regressed to this point with Katey. (Though she had to concede that the girl would make a good activist someday…she just needed an adjustment regarding her desired missions and visions). ************************* So now Chuck was finally making it through past the last few stores of Royal Flush, running just past The Man’s Sport, sort of sideways drop kicking through windows to nab some boxing gloves on the way. He’d already had a bowie knife in his possession, and (not to be blasphemous or anything but) everyone was lately comparing him to Jesus almost, citing the trite phrase “What would Chuck do?” which everyone adopted as a credo except of course for Seymour, whose messiah was apparently John Wayne instead. Chuck was also blasphemously Christlike in terms of the miracles he could seemingly perform; among them was indeed the miracle of the gloves and knives, in which he could amazingly multiply one meager bowie knife into ten to use for his knife gloves. (Who knows, though, perhaps Christ himself might have performed that miracle as well, had He been around a bit longer). And also like Jesus, Chuck showed off his great miracle(s) to women of ill repute with whom he fraternized—though unlike in the Good Book, Summer was no Mary Magdalene, and Chuck had less honest intentions with his own professional lady than did Jesus. He was anxious like nothing before, because he knew he was almost going to miss his deadline. It was well past 8:00am, and reassuringly, Katey was all ‘brexed up for the day—yes, she’d already had her “’brexfast”—so that was not the concern right now. What Chuck was now hurrying about was of much more paramount concern. It was 9:44. He was running through the first set of double doors, then down past the maintenance ones (ducking his head in despite his rush…just to make sure about any more possible wayward activity on Katey’s part), then at last into the steamy subterranean areas just before the airvent, which this time Chuck took on with a jumping baseball slide of sorts. Flopping out of the duct a few seconds later—9:46 now—Chuck huffed back into the security camera chamber. Again, no sign of Katey. He was about to throw up his hands (as well as whatever was in his stomach, once again about to live up to his name by literally up-CHUCKing as he did after he had a spoiled hamburger or too much vodka), when all of a sudden: “FULL HOUSE, FOOLS!” He couldn’t believe it. Because he was so busy recently settling the Family Feud, castigating the perpetrators of the World’s Most Dangerous Trick, and paying his dues (not moneywise, but the hard way) to become a member of the Fortune City Botany Club, he’d never made time to Ante Up. Katey, though, apparently just did. Chuck ran through the labyrinthine, confusing-ass corridors of the safehouse, going up and down staircases and getting lost a bit to eventually get to the source of the sound. He then bent to one knee and punched the ground in utter, my-daughter-has-turned-esque frustration. “Katey, what in Gordon Dawkins’s good name…?!” In the room before him, there were survivors out of sorts, clotheswise. Yes, Kristin was wearing her blue robe deviation from the flouncy entertainer gear from before…but the others. Jack was now in full-out armor, his green and yellow shirt and other telltale clothing (other than his helmet, which now matched the rest of him perfectly) cooped up in a far corner. Woodrow was similarly outrageously decked out, in an orange jumpsuit (which Jack and the others here figured he should get used to anyway, with his federal offenses), Woody’s suit stashed near to Jack’s plus-size wear. Trixie-Lynn, still with her inbred-Cobra-Commander-esque red bandana, yes…but her own duds additionally in the same nook, and herself with a Willamette Security uniform on. The heavenly hayseed returned Chuck’s incredulous look with a glance that seemed to say, “What? It’s cold up in here, yo.” It was then that Chuck realized that his alternate hero costumes were likely not in his locker anymore. And yes, what else was situated atop all of that apparel in the corner but… …Puff Puff. His daughter was reverting back to her “giant red die” days…only this time, the stakes were much higher, and individuals other than towering stuffed animals were being affected. And Katey herself, well she looked almost the same as before…but her headphones were now replaced with nothing other than a bright white Terror Is Reality baseball cap. At this point he didn’t even want to know where or how she got that. “Hey Chu--… I mean, Daddy.” He ignored this filial insubordination. “Honey, what are you…” “You’re late, you know. Two minutes.” She held up two forefingers to punctuate this. It was 9:49. “I can’t…GIVE THESE PEOPLE BACK THEIR CLOTHES!” “What was the deal? I was supposed to be given Zombrex between the hours of 7:00am and 8:00am…then I was supposed to be given a new Capcom video game between the hours of 1:00pm and 2:00pm, 5:30pm and 6:30pm, 9:13 and 10:13pm, 3:56am and 4:56am, and…what other time?” She finished this last phrase condescendingly. “8:47am and 9:47am.” He was more tired than anything at this point. “Right, right. And, as with the shots, not a minute before or after each window.” He just looked at her. At her, with yet again stacks of money behind her…and the others with not even the threads originally on their backs to their names. “Stacey must have called about your running short, so there’s no excuse. It doesn’t matter anyway, I guess, because I’m bored with this. Hell, I can even give these people back what they wore…and you can get your old costumes back, Dad. Just let them use your bathroom/saveroom for a few minutes.” Chuck’s head was about to explode like that of an undead upon whom he had delivered a DDT. As the other poker players were filing out to go to his bathroom: “What do I have to do, to get you to stop, Katey?!” The precocious, too-cute-under-any-circumstances,-even-these tyke merely shrugged, then looked at the ground for a bit. She then turned her head back up to look him directly in the eye: “Give me thirty million.” “WHAT?!” “Think about it, Chuck. You paid some tacky leather-wearing gambling-problem hillbilly twenty-five thou to accompany you back here. You put up half a mil with the useless Looting bastards for the sake of a spin or three in that ugly orange convertible. And don’t think I didn’t figure out what that envelope back there was for…ten thousand just to bring those floozy “professionals” to the safehouse…and then what you wanted to pay for with that…Chavez imbecile on top of it? Surely I’m worth much more than that. “And besides,” she continued, “I’ll put the money toward a worthy cause; I’m gonna find a way to cross over to Inafune’s world, in time. Keijunior, his son, is pretty high maintenance…and for once I think I’m gonna take care of someone else, rather than be taken care of.” Chuck looked off petulantly into a corner of the room. After all of what he did and provided. “Man, f**k this.” He started off back towards the security camera room, on his own. “I KNEW YOU WERE THE BAD GUY!!!” screamed Katey from the now-distant makeshift hustler den. “Go advanced-zombie-vomit in your TIR hat, honey,” the man said from over his shoulder. Chuck went back to the camera room and just lay down for a while, taking an extended vacation of about six minutes. By that point, the zombies from the worst ending possible came lurching to the threshold; Stacey tried to stop them, but before they could bust in, Chuck leaped forward and spread the door wide, welcomingly open. “I literally couldn’t afford to save her,” he said to Stacey, who cupped her hands aghast with eyes wide as he spun out back first onto the floor, cradling his fingers relaxedly behind his head as he waited for the incoming undead to work him over.
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Post by Veta on Jan 8, 2011 22:22:17 GMT -6
*Claps* Quite humorous.
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Post by Deleted on Jan 9, 2011 10:36:47 GMT -6
Thanks Veta; this was one of my more attempt-at-humor ones. I'm hoping to do a more serious "drama" one and get it out towards the end of this week. In all, I'm hoping to do about thirteen DR2 stories total in the next several months, about six DR1s, and some other game stories as well.
I don't mean to complain, but I guess I would just appreciate if some more people commented. I know I'm not in the best standing with the group, as I'm new, but I put five or six hours into the story and it would be cool to hear a bit more back. Positive, negative, constructive criticism, destructive criticism, neutral comments, whatever; the worst thing for someone who writes, no matter what it is, is to just make something in a vacuum with no feedback. I've responded to a number of the other threads this morning also, so I guess I just wanted to hear from you guys too, here. (I do appreciate your talking with me on PirateWolf's thread about some of my stuff, in any case, and I will try to join you guys on chat sometime later this week).
Q42
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Post by Deleted on Jan 9, 2011 10:38:08 GMT -6
Also, I had a question about formatting for this site as well, because I wanted to try and make my paragraphs look like paragraphs here; they came out as separate lines when I cut and pasted the story, and as a result it came out very liney and not paragraphy. Is there any way I can improve this generally?
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Post by Kong The Jester on Jan 9, 2011 11:58:40 GMT -6
Great story man, I loved the ending. Also, the problem with the whole copy pasta(copy paste) thing is mainly how it got copied. The only solutions I can think of is to preview the post and look where you need to fix it, or type it here. If you type it here but don't finish, just copy it and send yourself a pm or save it on your computer.
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Post by Veta on Jan 9, 2011 17:15:43 GMT -6
Double press the enter button per paragraph, is my suggestion. And the rest of the parts would have to do with people other than Chuck, right? Would be great if you reminded us h Who some people are ._. I forget survivors.
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Post by Deleted on Jan 9, 2011 22:11:51 GMT -6
Thanks for the fixes, guys; I will try to implement them next time I try to post a story.
And yes, my future stories will go beyond Chuck...my next one will be a story involving Chrystal from the survivor room and both Twins (one of which is namd Crystal, of course, so there's a bit of a connection there)...the one after that will be a Slappy origin story...and then I will try to do about ten or so more total. I am then going to do hopefully five or six more for DR1. After that, maybe some fan fictions on other games and all. I hope to get my next story out by the end of this week; till then, I will be on and off here periodically; hope to chat with you all soon.
Q42
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Post by Deleted on Jan 11, 2011 11:39:11 GMT -6
Just wanted to let people know, not that anyone is like holding me to this or holding their breath or anything, but I said I would come out with another story in a couple of days...I might need at least till Sunday, or the middle of next week. I started writing my second story today, and I'm going to have to have more time on it. I just wanted to inform so that no one thinks I'm like a punkass or anything:). I'll probably end up just doing three stories total this month (including the one I initially posted) but I'll try to have a bit more than three total for next month. I just wanted to take my time with this and stuff. Hoping all are well.
Q42
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Post by Kong The Jester on Jan 11, 2011 16:56:04 GMT -6
Meh, whenever you can get them done man, we can wait. Well, I can wait, I dunno about the other peeps. >_>
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Post by Deleted on Jan 19, 2011 22:35:10 GMT -6
Here's another story. I don't have time to format it right now, but I promise that the next one will be formatted better. I am also uploading this onto Fan Fiction.net maybe tomorrow, so you will be able to see it there as well. Hope you enjoy this:)
Q42
MAINTENANCE MERGENCES #2: “The C(h)rystal Exchange”
Standing around in the nook near the restroom stalls and waiting to extend arms of thanks towards a constantly incoming hero just wasn’t doing it for her anymore. For Chrystal Kennedy, the young, stifled girl who had wanted this past week to be her first of many releases from her constricting college years, there needed to be something more fulfilling. It wasn’t enough for “what happened in Fortune City, to stay in Fortune City” to be her mulling around a limited, staid safehouse, awaiting rescue by the same sort of obnoxious neanderthals she’d always avoided in her undergraduate years. Chrystal wanted more. She wanted to be out there, beyond the confines of her safe space. In actuality, it was not the case that nothing out of the ordinary occurred in the survivor areas. Following the lead of Chuck Greene, who oftentimes sped into the security-laden realm on gazelle-like legs not hopped up on actual speed but rather on the blender-generated Quickstep, the ordinary citizens and visitors of Fortune also attempted, and often succeeded, in deriving superhuman benefits from the mixture of ordinary substances. Resorting to the coffee pot in the cafeteria rather than any blender on hand, the survivors soon found themselves able to perform pretercurious feats, the likes of which were never imbued within the stragglers of any mundane mall in the Rockies. Through the combination of a cup of joe and whiskey, for example, the apparent innocents soon found themselves able to blink themselves in and out of various survivor chambers. So teleporting all over the safehouse, Chuck, for example, was confounded when he encountered Curtis Ellenton right near the exit vent, telling him “Oh, and be sure to bring back a couple of cartons of milk with you,” to thoroughly complement his repulsive baby bonnet costume after asking him just a minute and several other rooms ago in the lower level if he could score some bibs from Stylin’Toddlers. It got to the point that, towards the beginning of the fourth day there, many survivors were looking nervously around, constantly swinging their attention to the left and to the right of them—not out of concern for dust crumbling down from above, or the inevitable eventuality of the undead breaking through the safehouse’s barriers, but rather through an incessant anxiety of being heart-attack-startled by a potential incoming fellow survivor who might just randomly warp in. Some combined potables yielded other interesting results. Mashing up java and vodka resulted in one’s ability to duplicate the self, while taking together some drinkable tar and coffee creamer itself caused a rift in short-term time displacement. As a result, beyond the initial identical cloning of Chuck Greene for “co-op” purposes, other survivors began playing with these last two abilities, making outrageous copies of themselves in an effort to live vicariously through the second (and possibly third and beyond) selves they manufactured—though most of these copied casinodwellers were more fraternal or sororal in appearance to the original than identical—and sending them hours forward or backward over the course of a couple of days to encounter the cycling casino hero Chuck. Tamara Stein, for example, confined by the same mostly monotonous life her cousin Leah led in Colorado, fabricated a comely mermaid to reside within a giant shell in Atlantica. Stuart Holmes realized his newscasting dreams by making an identical self who delivered the on-location megaphoned tirade of Stacey Forsythe. He also created a same self who simply wanted to traverse the same casinoways that Chuck did…but this one was picked off by the most coarse of cowardly, rather inbred snipers on the Strip. It so happened, though, that amongst all of these clonings and time trippings, the dual happenstance of survivortown Chrystal Kennedy and the infamous Twin Crystal Bailey was merely a coincidence. Regardless, Chrystal wanted the life of her seemingly ageless and definitively H-less namesake. She didn’t want a copy of it…she wanted that exact life. She wanted to be one of the two stunning near-indistinguishable ladies who ushered in Tyrone King at the commencement and adjournment of her favorite show, Terror Is Reality. Time and again she taped the pay-per-views, all of them, and now sixteen TIRs and bored to tears in the safehouse later, she lay here ruing the fact that she couldn’t record the most current reality terror special. The overtly explicit program helped fuel Chrystal’s desire to make a break from her otherwise humdrum existence, which indeed hadn’t improved since her alighting into this survivor area. Sure, she was glad to still be alive, to not be zombie chow out there…but she nonetheless felt too cooped up. And Crystal, corporeally too, was what Chrystal had always wanted to be as well. It was only that kind of woman who could score the men she desired. That kind of woman who could turn more heads in an instant than a motivated motorcross maven could crush in an hour. That kind of eye candy who could steal the heart of the object of her fixation…the real “green” rider beyond Chuck Greene… …Leon Bell. Everyone else watching the TIRs perceived only an oversized mulleted rugrat decked out in verdant hues, but there was something in his bravado, something in his braggadocio which Chrystal couldn’t resist. All the other bikers really revved it up during the performance, sure…but Leon was always really on fire, and Chrystal was likewise always on fire for him. It didn’t, however, take a crystal ball to see that there wouldn’t be a Chrystal Bell anytime soon…(nor, in the young lady’s idle Raccoon City exposé-obsessed thoughts, would she, beyond even getting to meet the brazen biker, have him take her surname and become the next Leon Kennedy). So in order to get what she wanted, Chrystal would have to change herself. Utterly. And she knew just the person who could help her. ****************************** “Hey there, Boog…I mean, John,” she began, approaching and addressing the nerdy, purported proponent of science, checking herself this time not to refer to him by the unflattering last name which everyone else around the survivor area used. The somewhat-of-a-man who was the object of this address turned quickly, a bit too much so, and faced her, nervously. He knew, but did not know that she knew, that he’d had much of a thing for the young lavender-clad woman since he’d abandoned thoughts of action figures in an impromptu South Plazan plywood fortress, and arrived at the safety area with the hope of actually meeting humans of the…oppositely-gendered persuasion. Chrystal could tell, at any rate—she could see through tens of socially awkwards in undergraduate who seemed to pretend not to care about her presence—and even if she were wrong about it at times, she could determine from this fellow’s foundering, spastic stance when she was near that the behavior was all founded on her account. “Yes, my…yes, Chrystal,” he began stutteringly, further confirming the lady’s confident beliefs regarding his feelings for her. “I don’t know if you noticed, but your…’concoction combination innovations,’ as you are wont to call them, are becoming rather popular around here.” Chrystal cleared her throat, prepared to make her pitch. “I know that so many people here are grateful to be able to break the monotony of safehouse life by…blinking about, and…making copies of themselves…” “I…yes,” barely answered the Boog, stammering as was standard for him, “and…that, that’s what you want as well? To ‘port…or to…pair yourself?” “Well…I want to make something new of myself, I guess you could say…but not quite a completely separate, second me. I don’t know if you’ve ever watched Terror Is Reality…” ************************* “Yes, yes yes, it can be totally arranged for you, Chrystal,” reassured the Boog as he began to usher his crush into the men’s bathroom in the Royal Flush Plaza. “If all goes according to my estimations, the Twins should be approaching the critical women’s apparel store in Palisades right about this…second.” After discussing with the young, bored stiff survivorette the risks and ramifications of what she wanted—body switching with Crystal Bailey in order to experience firsthand the other woman’s ostensibly more exhilarating aura, looks, and lifestyle—these two had neared their end of the means for the execution of the experiment in question. It was a good thing that Chuck Greene, the motocrosser in amber (not to be confused with the motocross mistress by the name of Amber) had lent the ersatz man of science here his defiler to cover the dangers for the short trip (although personally, John might had modified the weapon in order to enhance the damage quotient by +30). The plan was this: In order for the body exchange to occur, Boog theorized, Chrystal Kennedy and Crystal Bailey would have to enter the interdimensional cosmos crossroads portal located between a chintzy boutique and a filthy crapper at the exact same moment, each from the end opposite to the other. After that instant, Kennedy’s mind would migrate into the bodaciousness of Bailey, and vice versa (although, depending on who you asked, the former was possibly less bodacious than the latter, so this descriptor, at least, didn’t necessarily go both ways). It was a premeditated situation of 1980s cinematic proportions that would make Kirk Cameron, Dudley Moore, Fred Savage, Judge Reinhold, George Burns, that farnchy-faced kid who played opposite George Burns in 18 Again (not to be confused with the blasphemy against 18 Again that was 17 Again with perennial douche Zac Efron (and no, the latter was not a prequel)), and anyone else in an eighties body switch movie to stand proud. In any event, this thesis by John Boog regarding the warp—which was really nothing more than a theory, a hypothesis—would, if proven to be accurate, launch him stratospherically into the more honored annals of pseudoscience. All he had to do was prove his findings, which he hadn’t figured out yet how to do. Ah well, at least this would graduate him from playing Kaves & Kobolds. And yet, his fellow Kavedwellers were at the moment indispensable for the success of this touchy operation. Indeed, Brian was back in the safehouse, at the ready with a walkie talkie to call Chuck in case something went wrong! Kevin was at the camera controls alongside Stacey (and striking out with her as well while he was at it), ready to inform John and Chrystal of the “go” moment regarding the key twin on the other end! Curtis was curled up in a downstairs cubbyhole by himself, drinking his troubles away! (With lowfat milk of course…as much as lowfat could really help him). What was that? How, you ask, were the Twins herded toward their end of the Palisades Merchant Changing Room–Literal Royal FLUSH connector? To explain further, it basically went something like this. Within the last few hours or so, Chuck managed to defeat Tyrone King and bring his swindling ass back to the safehouse. In this reality, the Twins never captured Rebecca, nor encountered Chuck at the club, so there was no justifiable homicide of one gorgeous gemini nor consequent suicide of the other. On top of that, the Twins, blissfully gallivanting their way through various plazas on wilding sprees for the sheer hell of it, were never made aware in their throes of pleasure (which they always provided for themselves in abundance) that TK was even brought down, much less taken prisoner. What the TIR cyclists knew about the Baileys was little; however, they were cognizant of the fact that they occasionally liked to double-team the evil emcee, the Tekester himself, when they were in a mood that was more…heterosocially inclined. But the Tekeasaurus wouldn’t make it easy for them. No, Tyrone would, playfully, lead the peripatetic pair along on scavenger hunts of his own design and delight, make them engage in a little “undertime” as he called it, for them to gather clues towards the eventual location of one of many keys he held to his own private inner sanctum of salacious slumber. Kris Bookmiller, the crimson cycler, knew this among the others, and the Kavers inspired the man, goading him towards revenge against the imprisoned impresario of pernicious pay-per-views, to force TK to write a new set of scavenger hunt challenge notes for the Twins to undertake. Wanting to screw over the ladies more than actually screw them (as the bikers all mutually lusted after, yet moreso despised the comely carbon copies), Kris jumped on his red bike as well as his chance to avenge himself and his self-respect. Before long, the Twins, using a secret passage of their own to bypass any straggling undead (which Kris and the other contestants also knew about (okay, so they peeped sometimes, despite their hate)), reached their dressing room to find the fabricated correspondence…and so began a new titillating romp through the plazas to score another chance at a key to TK’s… (I don’t have the stomach to write “heart,” nor the indecency to write anything else, here). So there the Twins were now; none of the Kavemen could believe it. On the other end of the interdimensional yet unremarkable portal, Amber and Crystal Bailey were approaching the backmost changing area of the, as amazingly appropriate/ironic enough the store name would be for the latter twin in another minute or so… …Brand New U.
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Post by Deleted on Jan 19, 2011 22:35:59 GMT -6
“It says to find something ‘creamy yet cuddling the cement’…” began Crystal to her sister, who was trailing behind by a few paces, “then the next line, ‘…steamy when you snuggle in my sem…’ wait, that doesn’t rhyme! That last word doesn’t end in a T!” “Guess he’s going for all-out crass this time around,” answered Amber, “maybe he’s using poetic license nonetheless.” “’Creamy yet cuddling the cement,’” Crystal continued, her eyes wandering to the corners of the sales floor. “Even when we put our heads together, Ambs, we can’t think our way around too much—besides deciphering lascivious lust hunts devised by megalomaniac television tyrants, or complex iaido katana katas which only about ten senseis around the country have mastered—but I’m willing to wager that he’s talking about shoes here.” There was nothing, explicitly, to make Crystal jump to this conclusion; she always just defaulted into “shoes” as being the answer when she was completely stumped. Fortunately for Chrystal and the Kavestuds. “Crysts, you’re absolutely right!” shouted Amber in vacuous jocundity as she pointed across the aisle. Scattered all around were pairs of white low heels, which everyone from the foxiest mistress multiples such as the Twins to a store-roaming savage such as Chuck Greene could don and enjoy. Crystal’s face brightened, then: “The clues here otherwise seem to point to the closet in the back as being the place where the key would be!” “Then there must be another couple of heels in there,” figured Amber. The raven-haired sister neared the closet, then found the shoes in question, placed there by Kris along with the key he’d extorted from TK in the safehouse infirmary. Crystal reached for them, unaware that this seeming mere nook was in reality the unusual (yet quite practical) gateway once revealed by the sunstruck Linette Watkins. “SILVER STRUMPET IS IN POSITION!” called Kevin to Brian, the latter at the ready with his talkie and the former now receiving several glances of disdain from Stacey Forsythe from hearing such an epithet for even someone like one of the Twins. Regardless, the clarion call sounded once more, this time by Brian to Boog: “SILVER STRUMPET IS IN POSITION!” On the other end of that exchange: “Now, Chrystal!” urged John, guiding his infatuatee towards the dingy stall for dudes. “Good luck and GordonDawkinsspeed to you.” A second later, Crystal Bailey stretched for the shoes just as Chrystal Kennedy seized at the s**tter. ************************ “Are you alright now?” asked an unfamiliarly saucy voice to the right. The first sensation Chrystal had beyond this query was that of a sickeningly bitter substance being somewhat coerced into her mouth. “Boog…get…” she started, extending her arm out to push away what she knew then to be wine falling onto her tongue. Then she opened her eyes wider, shuddering a bit from her natural allergic reaction to alcohol…as well as from the unnatural, unsettingly pure beauty of her now unclothed arm. “Did you call me ‘Boob’ just now, Crystal?” asked the stunning blonde before her. She was decked out in the most alluring yet simultaneously nondescript of yellow dresses. On her, though, a blanket adorned with cheap thumbtacks could look effing irresistible. Still, the apparent nightwear on the woman was equally tacky (pun intended to the comparison above). And, looking down, Chrystal could now tell that she was wearing the same, in silver. “You haven’t called me that in years, Baby,” began the woman again, whom Chrystal now recognized as Amber Bailey. “You just won’t let me live down the boob job I got years back, now will you? We were always identical in every way…except for that.” “Umm…Amb…” Chrystal struggled to get to her feet, to say anything at all, but couldn’t. She was still somewhat in a daze from the mind switch—she couldn’t believe Boog could pull it off!—and half swooning from the slight bit of alcohol she just took in. Even just the smallest bit could cause an adverse reaction within her. Regardless, Amber thrust her arm down to give her “sister” a lift up. “But we’ll always be tight, me and you, the Booby and the Baby. Now come!” With a hearty tug or three, Amber finally managed to get her now-somewhat-of-a-sibling to her feet. Crystal stood sturdy for a second, then couldn’t help but lean over again, taking to Brand New U’s moody mural for support. “What’s wrong with you, Babe?” the bombshell near her said, clutching at Chrystal in an almost invasive way. “What, were those heels tipped with…poison or something? TK must be getting sickly kinky in his old age…” “No, I’m…I’m fine…Amber,” Chrystal quickly returned. A moment or two later, when the wooziness finally faded, wave of overwhelming wonder swept over her. Now instead of feeling stupefied, she was starstruck. She was having a conversation with Amber Bailey! One of the great, storied idols of Terror Is Reality! Then, of course, Chrystal realized the even greater news. What could be better than talking with such a celebrity? She shuffled towards the nearest glass window to try and get a semblance of a glimpse at who…what she was now. She gazed half amazed and half aghast at the glass. The once-ponytailed, kind of chubby schlub that was Chrystal had now undergone an interdimensional chrysalis change into…this! The skinniness with curves, the flawless fetching face, the Supermanly blue-black hair…she was inside Crystal Bailey! She was Crystal Bailey. It was unbelievable…and yet a bit unpredictably unnerving...all at once. “I’m…I’m really Crystal Bailey!” Chrystal couldn’t help but blurt out, shaking her unbelievably smooth hands up and down before her. “Uh…yeah?” returned her now sister, looking at Chrystal incredulously, then gazing past her to the place where Chrystal lay instants earlier. “You must have hit your head when you fell or something.” The yellow twin then strode over to the back corner near the warp, and (luckily for John Boog and company) did not inspect the last changing area on the left, but carefully squinted at the opposite corner to make sure that there was no blood or hair anywhere. Nothing looked too serious. “Come, Baby, let’s go tear things up,” she finally said afterward. “You’ll feel better, I think, if we continue our daily gallivant around Fortune. Nothing should be able to stop us now…after all, you’ve got the keys and I’ve got the katanas.” At finishing this, Amber pointed to one of the glass panels near the front of the New U. Propped up against them were a pair of wicked, incredible swords. Somewhat in kind, a half wicked, half unsure of smile now crept across Chrystal’s face. And now she felt the weight of the keys, once inside of the white low heels, inside a slim pocket in her dazzling dress. “Chop, chop, Baby!” called the gorgeous golden gazelle from over her shoulder as she began to skip towards the store’s entrance. “It’s not like we have a full seventy-two hours here to spend or anything!” ******************************* On the other side, a couple minutes before, John Boog struggled in the Flush’s men’s room, like Amber did at the U, to get the body of a C(h)rystal to her feet. And, in a similar way, the girl in question was debilitated with bewilderment for a few moments. Crystal staggered clumsily about, grabbing at thin toilet stall doors to regain her balance and figure out her body. And when she stumbled before the bathroom’s long letterbox of a mirror and looked in… “GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!” Crystal instinctively nabbed a waste container nearby and chucked it at the returning overweight fuchsianess she viewed, breaking the glass a bit. She then clutched at John Boog himself, attempting to throw him against it next. Several seconds and fruitless heaves later, though, Crystal found that she didn’t quite have the wiry strength she had five minutes earlier. Nor, upon looking again in the now cracked reflection, did she have the figure, or the face, or the… She didn’t have time to get another thought out as Boog’s stealthy needle did its work. The defiler, as it turned out, wasn’t the only thing he’d borrowed from Chuck. Employing a used Zombrex needle out of necessity (yes, it could spread diseases, not excluding the occasioning of “turning”…but these were extenuating circumstances), John managed to stick Crystal with a solution combining Repulse and a liquid sleep aid which Denyce fortuitously took with her from Roy’s, just as the motocross maven was taking her from the pharm, in case she might have trouble sleeping where he was taking her. (Boy, it really took a village, with this project…or at least a safehouse). Silently now, Crystal relented and slumped half to the ground, with John barely catching her before she fell fully. The boy beyond his years looked down at the prone maiden and smiled, somewhat wickedly. With some effort, the undoubtedly out of shape semi-scientist then shuffled away from the bathroom, shambling along with the body of Chrystal Kennedy occupied by the unconscious mind of Crystal Bailey, back to the survivor area. This, John decided unbeknownst to Chrystal or the Kavers or anyone else, was only the next best thing to what he really wanted. And he would get what he really wanted in good time.
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Post by Deleted on Jan 19, 2011 22:36:46 GMT -6
Chrystal thought she would be ready for everything she would be set to encounter. She figured that the life of a TIR Twin would entail just sitting pretty, looking pretty, acting pretty. She didn’t realize that it could also involve taking out the rage at being constantly objectified on almost every unloving and otherwise inanimate item in sight. “YAAAGH!!!” shouted Amber, using her katana to render a once-cared-for, once-CUREd-for ghoul into several pieces. “I’m not going to stop until all the zombies are eradicated from Americana!” “Amber, you know that’s…” Chrystal was starting to say “that’s impossible,” given the statement she overheard from Chuck earlier that these things basically constantly respawned from some extradimensional woodwork. The human population of Fortune City was once 64,593, but the undead population here seemed to be that times infinity by infinity. “Nothing’s impossible,” her “sister” shot back, almost seeming to read her mind (although Amber had no clue as to whose mind it really was inside the body of Crystal Bailey). “I’m gonna wipe out this entire casino so we can be free to cut loose!” And so Amber continued on with her jagged Japanese blade, swinging about, dismembering, decapitating. “Come on, join in! You know Booby and Baby always do this together!” Why does she always call me…I mean, her sister, “Baby”?, Chrystal wondered, as she began to make halfhearted attempts to attack zombies nearby. “Unnnh,” she grunted, as she began to heft the sword overhead. Then a second later, when her limbs elevated easily above herself, she found that it wouldn’t take the exertion she figured it would take after all. Crystal and Amber didn’t have much going on in the book smarts department, but their street smarts, casino smarts, and all other kinds of environmental smarts—and brawn over brains, as diametrically opposed to pitiful Kavedwellers hiding from unlife in the safehouse. A few tens of once-tenacious and now-trounced monsters later, Chrystal looked up and noticed it. Amber wasn’t entirely just cutting loose in any indiscriminate direction. She was headed for the bar setup in the middle of Americana. No…in the name of my intolerable allergies, no… Chrystal did all she could to leap dismemberments all about to catch up to her loose cannon of a companion. *********************** It was all Boog could do to thrust the body of Chrystal Kennedy through the airvent. He’d want to involve the word “thrust” somewhere with the girl…but not like this. And boy, did he want to “thrust” regarding Crystal Bailey ever more so. Chrystal was right about John; he did indeed want to succeed with the wonderful, if somewhat dullardlike, Lady Kennedy. The diffident scientist part of him wanted that much. But the more visceral, wilder Boog within—wanted Crystal Bailey…and he wanted all of her. He was determined to satisfy both needs, all in one blow, through this little project. As tangled as the trick sounded, he’d hoped to please Chrystal first by giving her what she wanted...then later, make himself Crystal’s man by saving her from this…little crisis. He could juggle the C(h)rystals for a while, like he could juggle his Kaves die; it would all be worth it. And he would get Curtis his Jessica, Kevin his Europa, and Brian his Lashawndra all in good time for helping him out with this. In order to pull all this off, however, he’d have to make his own luck a bit. And, eying the zombie behind him, which he’d let lurch after him into the airvent basement, he knew just how to initiate all of this. ********************** “All you have to do is lift the liquid to your lips, honey,” urged Amber as she prodded Chrystal on to take a sip of beer. “I’m starting out lightweight with you here, ‘cause I know you took a bit of a spill at the ‘New U. But you have to come around sometime.” How could Chrystal tell her blonde buddy here that she didn’t, and even couldn’t, drink? “I don’t think, Amber, I don’t think I can take this right now,” she said, lowering the beverage onto the bar. “I’m still spinning, my head, it’s still going around and around after what happened back in Palisades.” “Man…you know, Baby, you have to do the drinking for the both of us. We want to be Booby and Baby again, right? Not Ambler and Gambler…” Chrystal didn’t have an inkling regarding what Amber was talking about, but it was the truth between the Twins. Amber’d developed a bad drinking problem over the years, in an attempt to cope with the stress involved with Terror; in turn, Crystal garnered a gambling addiction in her time in Fortune, and gathered a debt that made ironic, for her personally, the name of this city. “You know that, after those epithets started popping up,” Amber continued, “you would start pulling these levers, and I would start pulling those, so we could each fix the other’s joneses.” She pointed respectively to the multiple taps behind the bar, and to various limbs of one-armed bandits around Americana. “Well, I’d rather gamble, for now,” began Chrystal, waving the beer away and starting from the bar towards the machines in question. “NO!” yelled the yellow maiden behind her, yanking Chrystal (well, really, it was Crystal’s) arm back hard. Chrystal thought the appendage would pop out of the socket, these Twins were that unbelievably strong. “You’re going to drink this…now. Then we’ll play games. Of a sort.” When the darker-haired woman glared back at her, Amber said, “Well, I’ll tell you what. I’ll even cut it. Alright? You just have to have this soda…but you have to take it with a bit of vodka.” “Okay.” Chrystal still hesitated a bit, but took the sizeable container from Amber’s hands once she finished preparing it. When the other woman’s back was turned again, Chrystal dumped the contents, then simulated wiping a moistened mouth when Amber faced her again. “It wasn’t bad. In fact, it felt good to take stuff like that in again,” she said to the golden gal in front of her. Amber nodded, then started to take the one she thought was fully her sister by the arm. What Chrystal didn’t know was that Amber was doing something furtive behind her back while Chrystal was stealthily jettisoning her drink. “Come, let’s go play some…though not the slots.” Amber escorted Chrystal to the glowing ring near the middle of the casino. “You’re up this time,” she added, pointing to what was known locally as the Thunder. The somewhat leathery, somewhat metallic bovine torso seemed to do anything but beckon to Chrystal. She looked very much askance at Amber. “Let’s go, now, sis; you wanted to play mostly and not drink, well, you’re gonna have to make up for it. Now get on.” Not wishing to anger Amber, Chrystal strode tentatively to the bronco, then straddled it. This alone seemed to satisfy the gold twin to some extent…and Baby could notice that Booby was even more than a little titillated by Chrystal’s mounting the simulated semi-animal. “Ride him, Baby!” shouted Amber as she switched the mechanism on. The ensuing nineteen seconds or so became the wildest romp involving a synthetic partner which Chrystal had ever experienced. Around and around her body thrashed, the woman atop the Thunder clutching for dear existence as she begged some deity up there (and thus betraying her ordinarily atheistic nature) to spare her. It was incredible that she could hang on for even the several instants that she did. All the while, Amber stood by, caressing her dress, slowly rubbing her thighs with her hands, allowing the most relaxed, ecstatic grin to cross her beauteous countenance. As a twin, she could feel all the excitement that her counterpart did. Being as addicted to intercourse as her sibling, the two spent all their days hedonistically, even arguably nymphomaniacally either actually gratifying themselves in a sexual way or finding substitutes for it the way a person trying to break out of cigarettes chews toothpicks. Then, in one abrupt instant, Chrystal found herself finally thrown from the Thunder, striking back first against one of the supports of the ring…and Amber went from pleasure to a similar pain in the ensuing instant. Chrystal struggled to collect herself and hoist up off the ground as Amber huffed over, a murderous scowl of contempt on her face. “The least amount of time you’ve ever ridden this, at least in the last several years, has been three minutes. I can’t believe you.” “It’s still the fall I took back in Palisades…Booby,” Chrystal shot back, spitting the last word as if it were a barbed cuss. “Crystal, I’m not buying it anymore. You weren’t supposed to get off…” Amber said, pointing emphatically at the artificial bronco, “…until I…got off. You know how it works between us.” The brighter-hued Bailey started to head off towards the Royal Flush exit while Chrystal shook her head. Maybe safehouse life was starting to look better to her after all. ************************* Crystal came to in the blandest of rooms, a drab nondescript chamber full of nothing but worn wooden shelving and rusted pipes. And a bloodthirsty ghoul gunning right for her. “AGH!” she cried, ordinarily ready to leap to a trusty cutter of a katana, but now noticing that such a tool was not at her disposal at present. “I’ll save you!” shouted an attempt at a bold inflection (though it ended up sounding more petulant than anything) as what appeared to Crystal to be a superhero half out of costume, barreling through the door with Chuck’s defiler still in hand. Then waveringly, but effectively, Boog brought the weapon down on the monster’s head, crushing it in the process. Crystal still had her lavender-sleeved arms over her face. She then noticed the clothing, as well as her now-different, heavier body, and spent more attention on this change than any gratitude towards John Boog for intervening. The latter couldn’t believe it. He stared at the girl before him for several seconds. “Well?!” Crystal still gazed in abject dismay at the alien hands in front of her, then: “…Yeah, what?” “I just saved you! Don’t you have anything to say to that?” She blinked a couple of times, then: “Uh…thanks. I’m sorry, I’ve been out of…where am I?” “You’re…you’re back at the safehouse, my lady,” John began again, putting aside Crystal’s lack of appreciation and bowing in the most douchey manner. “Sir John Boog, Engineer of the Freedom Spire, at your unending service.” The woman wanted to roll her eyes at this, but she figured she might need to make a friend in this predicament. “Well, thanks again for helping me out just now. I think I have somewhere to get to…” “I wouldn’t recommend your going anywhere in your condition, my dear,” said Boog, somewhat condescendingly. “You took a bit of a spill out in…out there…and you need to recover somewhat…engineer’s orders!” He couldn’t help but laugh a bit at his own pitiful effort at an iota of humor there. Crystal crinkled her brow at the semi-scientist, then sighed. She wanted to know what the hell was going on with herself, with her true body, wherever the hell that was, and she figured she would get more answers if she stayed put. “Alright; if this body is banged up a bit—and I don’t suppose you know anything about exactly what happened to me out there—I’ll stick around. For a little while.” “Madam, I believe I know about your current…state of disorientation. You don’t feel at all yourself, do you? We can explain. I can explain it best, really…” “Just, just give me a few minutes. I need to collect myself.” Crystal was a bit curt with this last. John obediently bobbed his head and, with a weak wave of his ludicrously gloved hand, ducked back out into the safehouse hallways. It was a good thing that no one saw him hobble in with the oblivious body of Chrystal Kennedy…not to mention the zombie which shuffled in behind them. Good of Brian to get Sullivan into K&K and Kevin to distract Stacey with his teeth-grinding assays at flirtation long enough for Boog to bring everyone and everything into position. And there were quite likely more orchestrations of John Boog’s to come.
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Post by Deleted on Jan 19, 2011 22:37:51 GMT -6
“WHOOOH!” cried Amber as she whirled around and around the tight machinery rows of Slot Ranch, hacking away at an ATM here and there. The cash splashed out of the busted machines by the two-and-a-half-thousandful as the winsome woman slashed here and there with her redoubtable weapon. “Who says you have to gamble in the first place to get your money, Crystal!” Chrystal hesitated a moment, then volunteered: “I figured that it would be more the fun way to win it, rather than just to take it.” She did everything she could to sound more like the one who normally bore the body she now wore. “Now that sounds like the Baby I know!” Amber flashed a sheeny smile, and Chrystal reflected that the light haired lady looked leagues better with such an expression. Most of the time, though, Chrystal noticed, smiling was just not a Bailey Twins thing; showing teeth more often would have seemed to make them more…human, and they didn’t appear to want to have that. The two rounded a grouping of slot machines when Amber saw something that made her eyes brighten more than any one-armed mechanism possibly could. “Come on, Baby…” she started. “Let’s do the Twist?” Chrystal finished for her, blubbering and almost involuntary. So much for trying to sound suave like Crystal. Amber flakily chuffed this off: “No, Babe…more like, ‘Let’s do the Booth.’” She emphasized this last with a point to a rather sizeable green structure before them. “The Cash Booth? They had one back at Americana…” “Yeah, but this one’s luckier,” Amber answered. “Besides, I like to…distribute my fun across the various lairs of Fortune, when I can, variety’s the spice and all.” As she said “distribute” and all thereafter, she waved her fingers in front of her like an old school rapper who speaks with his hands, and ended up coming off like a trendy collegegoer who attempts to talk hip but ends up sounding overly glib and trite. As if either of these ladies gave off anything in the department of personality to begin with, being the ambulatory trophies that they were. And Chrystal was beginning to realize this more and more as she traversed the segments of the City with her “new sister.” She was thrilled, at least to a degree, to be a Bailey within the first several moments or so…but now she felt a bit sick. Headsick, so to speak, at the rapid fire pace at which all of this was rushing at her—none of which she had really wanted to enjoy after all. Heartsick at the thought that the fulfillment of one of her greatest wishes left her so empty. Homesick for her old, somewhat chubby but entirely lovely body. The hell with all those who wanted the Barbies that were Amber and Crystal Bailey. Like that Lulu Barra back at the safehouse, and Rebecca Chang, and Princess Peach, and Tifa Lockhart, and the chick from Mass Effect 2 who looked like Michael Jackson, and any incarnation of Lara Croft (yes, she had a rough-and-tumble makeover, but as far as Chrystal was concerned Lara would always be an intimate-fluid-receptacle and nothing more)—all of those exaggerated simulacra of femalehood would eternally be far off the mark from what men should want and what women should aspire to be. ************************* While one lascivious Twin twirled in the throes of airborne dollar bills, the other Bailey barreled towards her own leisurely bailiwick, somewhat…earning the money a bit more, if only technically. Within the apparently innocent frame of a slightly overweight, pastel-clad survivor was actually a reality television fixture literally trying to break out. As the Crystal within the Chrystal strode secretly towards the machine marked Cash Diet, she figured that at least her in-some-ways better half Amber was not around to chide her for indulging in her favorite, vice-filled pastime. “Come on, come on,” said Crystal as she jerked at the stationary bandit, which made off with some of her cash (well, really it was Chrystal’s cash, so what loss was it to her). Several minutes later, one could still find Crystal yanking away at the same mechanism, expecting a different result again and again like the clichéd definition of insanity… And, sure enough, one in particular indeed did find her. Just as Crystal was reaching for the ultimately unsatisfying lever once more… “WHOAWHAT?!” she cried, startled, as Boog warped in right next to her. She dove first for cover, not knowing what it was that had just blinked in…then she reached for a nearby golden stand, hoisting it high overhead as the other, emerging person watched, then cowered in fear before her. Obviously Crystal wasn’t yet attuned to the fact that survivors could indeed just teleport in and out of existence within the safehouse confines. In stark contrast, Boog was not only aware of the phenomenon—he had engineered it, with his tinkering around the survivor coffee mechanism—and he had since perfected interspacial bodily transport to the point that he could maneuver to the exact points he wanted just by thought. Basically, the safehouse belonged to him, with this ability. Despite this, though, he still submitted to the awesome power and beauty that was wielded by Crystal Bailey, the greatest object of his…idealist fixations, who now held the gold stand threateningly against him. What Chuck and others who spoke with him didn’t know was that amongst John’s most prized action figures were those of the TIR hostesses themselves. Not unlike wrestling superstar molls like Miss Elizabeth and Sable, the Baileys too had dolls to complement their own doll-like existence, making the overly-perversely-poseable items microcosms of the real thing…both the toys and the live women were manipulable plastic, in essence. But Crystal wasn’t about to become John Boog’s possession. Looking down at the prone, pathetic survivor, she lowered the auric object she held in abject pity. “I…I can’t…stand you,” she said (pun most certainly intended, by her as well as by yours truly). Boog ceased shaking enough to be able to talk at last. “I…I only wanted to direct you to a machine that might work better for you,” he volunteered. Crystal raised an eyebrow warily. “L-L-Lucky Lapdance,” Boog managed to get out. “It’s over in another room. Let me have the honor of escorting you.” “I think I can handle things from here,” the woman said, her pink and purple sleeve waving in John’s face to move him away. She left him simmering in the musty storage, but John didn’t count himself out. He would yet become the big time bigamist spouse of Chrystal Kennedy-Boog and Crystal Bailey-Boog. ************************* Elsecasino, as Chrystal watched Amber standing in the now-activated money booth, casting her arms heavenward to allow bills upon bills to float up her dress, enveloping herself in a synthetic cyclone of dirty currency, the realistically-designed woman within the false silicate frame wanted to smash the cheap thrill of a machine with the wheelchair which lay nearby. She’s probably enjoying the sensation of dollars entering her intimate areas without having men’s hands stick the bills there, Chrystal figured. Actually, if she’d asked Amber, she would have indeed received that exact response. Until Amber completed her virtually coital transaction with the cash, Chrystal just rested against a slot machine, casually disemboweling any dead who approached her. For a fleeting moment she didn’t wish for her mind to migrate back to the safehouse, as her physically inferior real body wouldn’t have such strength, nor the access to a katana anyway, to similarly service the “Kavedwellers” who regularly, awkwardly came to fail at flirting with her in a comparably shambling way. “Alright I’m done,” said the other finally a few moments later, padding out of the green monstrosity. The score next to the booth, of course, read the minimum score; it wasn’t as if Amber were actively trying to put her hands on any of the airborne dough. She pointed back at the machine. “I’m not even going to bother asking if you want to partake, ‘cause I know you’re feeling off-kilter. I’ll tell you what, though: I’m really feelin’ the idea of going to our premier spot…you know, our…intimate meeting place…” Mostly depleted by this point, Chrystal just looked at her blankly. “You’re tired, I can tell. It’s a shame, though…we really should go there…you know, your favorite five-letter ‘S’ word…” Amber’s plain jane correspondent just sniffed and shrugged. She looked sheepishly at the woman, then said the first thing that came to her mind, which was her own favorite five-letter “S”-ey hangout. “Space.” It was Chrystal’s favorite, to be honest. Sure, the apparel was tacky—but that was the point. It was supposed to be ironically “in,” like people in the 1990s who wore t-shirts with candy bar or detergent company names on them. (Please tell me that was the style for just in the nineties…I’d have to shoot myself otherwise.) This was met with the most plastic-looking of sneers. “…Ssspace?!” Amber dragged out, pausing pregnantly therafter. Then finally: “Okay…you’re not my sister.” Despite being worn out, at this Chrystal looked up and stood stock. Amber was a flaky ass emeffer, but she was crazy too. And dangerous with a serrated sword that she more than knew how to use. “All this time, at least since you fell at Palisades, you’ve been acting so…how shall I say it? So…un…Crystal-ine. You muffed up at the Thunder, you wouldn’t do the Booth just now (and I knew you wouldn’t, that’s why I didn’t even care to ask)…what is with you this evening?” “Morning,” corrected Chrystal. It was, in fact, around Zombrex Time for insatiable seven-year- old Inafune freaks at this point. “God, and yeah, listen to yourself! If you were in your right mind, you, like me, wouldn’t give a crap about what time of day it was. We’re living high and large here, Crystal, we’re gonna be here forever, all party and pretty and it’ll never run out! Don’t ruin what the gods of greed have given us here. We’re gonna rule this wayward roost longer than Wayne Newton or Siegfried and Tigerfood ever performed at Vegas.” This last phrasing was unforgivably tasteless, yes, but this is Amber Bailey we’re talking about. Said Amber now took Chrystal by the hand and hurried her past the moving sidewalk byways that led to the Food Court. “Let’s go. I’m gonna take you to the five-letter-S-land—and yes, I’m talking about Shoal—and we’re gonna pump you so full of voddy that my Crystalline Baby’ll come back to herself in no time.” The other “twin” wanted to resist, but internally vacillating between the exhausting and soul-sucking experience of vapid wilding, and the enervating and soul-sucking experience of wasting away in a safehouse and swatting away horny nerds, Chrystal finally decided to give the former one more try. What did she have to lose, after all…beyond more of her dignity and decency.
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Post by Deleted on Jan 19, 2011 22:38:39 GMT -6
“TK!” “Mmm…uhhh…” “Teke!” raised again Crystal’s soft cry, as the involuntarily-disguised Twin rustled the shoulder of the captive Tyrone King in the safehouse’s sick bay. “Wake up! We have to get out of here.” “Now…now just who the f**k are you?!” Tyrone, like anyone else who wasn’t aware of the C(h)rystal switch, didn’t know about the true whereabouts of the brunette Bailey’s mind. To the tyrannical Terror host, this was just some crazed fan trying to impress him or something. Although it didn’t hurt, he figured on second thought, that someone was trying to free him right now, after all. (The truth was, too, that if Chrystal Kennedy were in her right mind—or her right body, as it were—and she had seen TK in the safehouse infirmary before the switch, she herself would also probably have tried to free the man, given her mania for his show. As such, it didn’t really matter whose mind was in charge of the pink and purple person trying to revive Tyrone at present). “Listen, it’s me! Crystal—Crystal Bailey! You have to believe me! You…” “Lady, you couldn’t even come close to being my Crystalline with all the plastic surgery in the Capcomverse. Get the living eff out of here, before I ring for…security.” He said this last with 100% pure uncut sanctimoniousness. The fact of the matter was, TK decided, if he was gonna be freed, he would have someone stylish do it (he wished it would “really” be Crystal Bailey and not this…seeming delusional fan before him)…or otherwise he’d have to do it himself. No way was he literally going out like this. “Look, I can prove it. Our scavenger hunts…your hiding the keys all over the casinos…” “Who the goddamn told you about that?!” TK shot back intractably. “My intimate snippets being scattered all over Fortune City! I swear, when I get back to them Twinny hos, there’s gonna be some real hell to pay!” While Crystal was trying to summon more proof, she looked over her shoulder, to make sure she wasn’t being seen. She was. And who else was watching but… “Boog,” she said, under her breath at the lurking presence wringing his hands from behind the infirmary window, the woman knowing his name by now due to his infamy around the safehouse. “’Boo’ yo’self, honey,” Tyrone said, settling more than ever back into his bed, “you ain’t scarin’ me none.” **************************** “So those stick ponies…” Chrystal then said, pointing to two overly suggestive junior-equestrian objects saddled across the lap of her companion, “I suppose they’re for something equally…risqué, as well.” Amber looked at her supposed sibling askance while they reclined in the black-light and effervescent fluorescentness that was the nightclub Shoal. “Nooooo,” she returned, drawing out the word with a bit of spite. Lights danced all around the pair as they settled into a corner of the club. Trendily awful music piped through to complete the scene. For some this would be a player’s paradise, a fornication fiend’s fantasy. Between these women particularly, that made only one of them. “These aren’t for that,” said the phosphorescent fox before Chrystal. “ Although I guess I could see you seeing that in me. Don’t you remember my telling you, though; they’re for Ember and Umber.” “Oh.” Chrystal didn’t dare add anything to that monosyllabic rejoinder. The other trained her eye on the ponyless person before her for a few beats, thinking, then she continued. “You know how it is, raising twins and all.” “Yes, yes, I’ve always told you, I could only imagine,” improvised Chrystal. The erstwhile survivor knew at this point she was treading water conversationally, and looked all around desperately at the ephemeral flashiness she could see. Always she longed to be in such hot spots…her plainness proscribed this throughout her dreary existence. She wanted now, though, to be the farthest from here, this hell of hedonism, this…Sheol that was Shoal. As Chrystal was looking longingly towards the now-closed door of Shoal: “Baby…” “Yes?” answered the innocent, turning back around to... …receive a knock in the face from a clone of the skinniest horse in the Capcomverse. “I don’t have twins.” Amber loomed frighteningly, crazily now over the prone body of Crystal and the mind of Chrystal, much more alarmingly with a wooden toy than the Twin’s counterpart ever could with a metal stand. “You must have forgotten…my third child!!!” Chrystal barely had time to duck away as the business end of Amber’s brandished stick pony found purchase in the glossy floor where the first girl once lay. “How could you forget my third child, Crystal!” shouted Amber, as she began to circle Chrystal menacingly. “Forget Ombre, the one whom YOU NAMED, after a card game while you were in the thick of your gambling addiction! “I have TRIPLETS! How could you not remember! “Unless you’re not REALLY Crystal Bailey…” Chrystal dove with all she had across the dance floor now, looking for anything she could to defend herself. All she saw were trays and beer bottles. A long, thin thing then clunked against the seat nearest to her. “I’ll give you a fair chance, imposter,” said Amber as she approached closer, eying the pony she just threw Chrystal’s way. “It won’t matter, anyway; I’ll gratify myself beating you senseless!” As if there were anything that wouldn’t gratify or pique Amber in that way. The lusty lady came even closer, ready for her second favorite kind of physicality. ************************ Crystal needed to regroup. Having paced away tensely from the sly, slimy Kavedweller, she wandered aimlessly for a bit, waiting for him to warp in her way at any second. Was there anywhere she could go? Ray Sullivan sure wasn’t about to allow her. In fact, the man of false security now seemed to recline against the airvent’s opening at the edge of the safehouse, as if trying to bodily block anyone else from coming in. When Chuck came out of the camera room where Stacey, Katey, and the homicidal yet lovable Snowflake resided, Ray would have to move again…but he sat pretty across the exit for now. And TK was evidently not going to be any help, either. Wouldn’t even give her time to demonstrate who she really was within. Who knew that Crystal would ever have to rely on who she was on the inside? Neither she nor Amber ever had to transact from beneath the surface of what they were. As she pondered this in another room, searching for other alternatives to escape the machinations of a sexually famished and absolutely dangerous gaming nerd, this spoken-of-devil alighted into the air. But this time he didn’t blink in alone.
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Post by Deleted on Jan 19, 2011 22:40:30 GMT -6
“They’ve copied her somehow…the pharm folks did this…DIDN’T THEY?!!” demanded Amber, wondering about all the capabilities of TK’s ominous benefactors as she stabbed out again at Chrystal with her long wooden warrior. The latter, meanwhile, blocked deftly with her own impromptu pony weapon. Chrystal was finally starting to get used to her supermodel skin and all of the concomitant body’s abilities. She still wondered fleetingly if it would save her now, nonetheless. She gave back as good as she got, matching Amber’s thrusts with her own parries and attempting some of her own, the blonde and black-haired pair at this point seeming to be the dueling Ken and Ryu, respectively, of game-show-hostess-hood. The two tore up the dance floor to a literal extent as Amber flipped, Chrystal flounced, Amber dived, Chrystal dashed, Amber slashed, Chrystal struck…and shattered her evil opponent’s equus in two. Chrystal was about to position her horse under the chin of her body’s counterpart when suddenly Amber rolled backward, shrugging lightly as she stood up. She then whisked her hands behind her, then put them forth once more, now holding, unbelievably, another stick pony, fully intact. “You also must not be aware about how very many slot items I have, phony,” the yellow yahoo said. “How those drug geeks copied Crystal I’ll never know…not unless I slug it out of you.” The other woman was growing weary of this; she didn’t derive any such euphoria from this fight as did Amber. She decided that she wanted to end this…and as such she decided, as her namesake and mindswap counterpart would do compulsively on many occasions, to up the ante. “You’re so tacky, you know that…Booby?” the saner woman taunted. “Don’t you DARE call me that, you imitating, impersonating TWIT.” Amber began to lunge forward anew as Chrystal began to back up carefully against a pillar near to her. “And you’re so much the more genuine a person? That’s a laugh. Going for two-bit idiots like TK…you could have better. You could have someone more real. You could BE someone more real!” “You don’t know anything about genuine or real, you pharmaceutical test tube…Baby,” spat Amber as she thrust again and again against her opponent, who blocked each advance. “You could have a good man…like Leon Bell,” Chrystal went on, readying herself for a move which she hoped Crystal’s body could handle. (She allowed herself a split second thought about how proud she was to assert the name of her own crush, too). “Motormullet?! Are you f**king kidding me?!” Between her rage and this new incredulity, Amber had really lost her fighting edge. Sloppily she went for an overhead strike… …just as Chrystal tossed her horse aside, ducked down and slid straight through the spread legs (make of that what you will; I’m kind of worn out on innuendos right now) of her erogenous enemy. Before Amber could turn around, Chrystal rose to her feet and slammed the horrifying hostess against the pillar, pinning her there with all her strength. “My name is Chrystal Kennedy,” she said, after a triumphant instant, “and I’m more woman than you or your s**ty silver sister will ever be.” *************************** “If I alone am not man enough for you,” said the brazen John Boog, ordinarily quite pathetic but now terrifying with three other Kavers crowded behind him in a claustrophobic room, “perhaps a cadre of the cuatro of us will be.” The back of the geeks were to the only exit of the room…and Crystal’s back was to the opposite wall. Between this miserable fact and the traumatizingly corny pun Boog just uttered, the woman was enervated to the point of passing out obliviously. But she had to stay on her feet. “You wouldn’t dream of touching me,” she said defiantly, “not in a safehouse full of survivors.” “Oh, what they don’t know…or they can’t hear, anyway…won’t affect them any,” replied the now boorish, now brutish Boog, his gloved hands grasping the air in the most unsettling, molesting of ways. “The sound mufflers Kevin and Brian created from amplifiers and stuffed animals in the safehouse loading bay assures us all of that.” The dawning realization shocked Crystal into silence. Not only had these dreadful dorks managed to ape Chuck’s drink mixing abilities through the coffee pot…they somehow absorbed his talent to “tape it.” And now would she be the one to die (thus completing the tacky DR2 catch phrase)? “Yep, my brother Kavers proofed this room all around while you were in here considering the Capcomverse. You might have wondered what took me…took us so long to ‘port in. Well, there’s your answer. We were…busy.” Crystal started in stark horror at the terrible quartet bearing down on her. Even this one non-blonde, in her able, supple true Twin body, couldn’t take on four non-undeads at once…let alone take them on in this more debilitated frame of Chrystal Kennedy. “And now, we’re gonna go from being busy…to getting busy. We don’t like a struggle…so Curtis…please administer the…ceremonial libation, if you will.” The aforenamed overgrown infant drew closer to a never-felt-so-doomed-in-her-existence Crystal, the former holding out a long black container before him. She and her sister had made for a ménage before…now it looked as if she would know what a fivesome would feel like. ************************** Once confident against the seemingly thwarted Amber Bailey, Chrystal soon found herself thrown to the ground once more, as the blonde twin rammed her elbow into the other’s ribs, then took her opponent down to the floor. “Here’s what we’re gonna do,” she said, flipping wild strands of hair back from her face as she straddled her legs across the supine Chrystal (again, I’m sick of being sick by this point, use your imagination). She drew a hand behind herself again and pulled out another item. “You’re gonna drink this, and in your oncoming stupor you’re gonna finally tell me fully who you are and who you’re from.” Amber was holding out a long, black container before her—the special drink she’d prepared behind Chrystal’s back while the latter was disposing of her own drink as Amber wasn’t looking. Chrystal eyed the drink, then gritted her teeth as she eyed the yellow peril above. “And if I don’t?” “Then you’re gonna take those,” Amber replied, motioning with her head toward another couple of objects in an adjacent corner, “and…get creative with them.” She was motioning towards a can of whipped cream and a lava lamp in particular. “You’ll take them into yourself—with one helping the other, of course—and, naturally, I’ll watch. I’ll sabotage you just like you sabotaged the real Crystal. And then I’ll make you drink my little concoction anyway, even if I have to…get creative with that, too.” Chrystal waved weakly for Amber to give her the drink, and she took a long, long sip. At this point she didn’t even care anymore about an allergic seizure (CHECK SEIZURE); by this far gone it would probably be her divine release from this dreary, crushing casino existence. ***************************** At the same moment, the baby that was Curtis Ellerton was force-feeding his special drink upon the Baby who was Crystal Bailey. Ahh, Randomizer mixed with Energizer, thought John Boog triumphantly as he stood by, he and his crummy cronies’ undersexed bodies at the ready. These four had quadruplehandedly beaten out Randy Tugman to be the most frightening virgin(s) this side of Fortune City. It turned out that Chuck did indeed take John to real live girls after all; he might have wanted things to go down a bit more…voluntarily, but he had to take what he could get (and for all his time in the safehouse, it wasn’t much of anything. Everyone from Erica to Esther turned him down). With a debilitating drink such as the one he and his awful allies created, no victim could awaken for a hundred hours after imbibing…and by then, the military would have moved in, and Chrystal Kennedy’s body would have been forgotten. Who really even noticed the lavender lady anyhow, he thought. She really didn’t stand out in any way—not in the way that the Twins did, at any rate. No, Crystal within Chrystal wouldn’t have a chance… …of course not, John figured… …unless the other Chrystal were taking a Randomizer at the exact same moment. And the unpredictable drink, especially coupled with Chrystal’s unique allergy, caused some kind of body-switch reversion. But that was silly, he thought. The odds of that occurring were a zillion of zombies to one. And besides…his goggles and gloves gave him +10 against unlikely occurrences. ******************************** As it happened, Crystal took her obsidian offering at the exact same second as Chrystal did hers. ******************************** “Wha…wh—Boog?!” Just as the sickening scum that was the owner of that name began hovering over her, Chrystal Kennedy—now back, full y restored in her regular body—looked at the four poor excuses for people standing by, realized that she was back where she belonged, and began to breathe a relieved sigh. “Ch…Chrystal?” said back the bastard that was Boog. It wasn’t that she’d said it—he knew that even Crystal knew of his cursed surname-based familiarity around the safehouse—it was the way she’d said it. So much more in a natural way. As if she had been uttering it for more than mere moments… Then the reverted girl looked a bit longer at the survivors around her...and it came to her that her immediately new surroundings might prove to be something markedly worse than the “Sheol” she had just occupied. “Break down that goddamn door, Gordon!” The attention of all five within the room was suddenly diverted. No one who was present could hear the exact statement uttered just now, the room as sound-buffered as it was…but it was if the entirety of the safehouse remainder was on the other side, waiting to burst forth. All the coffee blends and amateur tape-its of John Boog couldn’t save him or his fellow Kaver klatch from the wrath of Lashawndra Dawkins. “Lashawndra heard one of these geeks say ‘Shawndra’ all amorously to himself and such…and no one takes Lashawndra’s name in vain like that!!!” ********************************* “Now, tell me who you are,” Amber said again, this time meaning business with a katana in place of any faux pony, holding the sharpest of objects against her sister’s body’s throat. It turned out that by now, it was also her sister’s body’s mind which encountered this as well. “Amber, it’s me…” “Nah, ‘me’’s not good enough,” said the other, pressing the blade a bit more intently against Crystal’s throat. “You said something about ‘Kennedy,’ I want to know what that’s all about.” “Amber...” Crystal’s mind raced. This was the second time in so many moments she’d had to prove who she was. It was maddening; how to bring out her inner self, as it mattered crucially once more… “Your triplets. Ember, Umber, Ombre,” she said finally. “Parroting back the three children I just told you about minutes ago won’t help you,” gritted the other woman, seemingly almost ready for what she thought was the clone of her twin’s body to lose her head. “FIRE AND RAIN!” “Wh… what?” “Fire and rain…—fire and rain,” Crystal said again nervously, then once more decisively. “If I can’t conjure something from inside me, then I can conjure something from between ourselves. Our father and mother…we’re the mulatto children of Philip and Laura Bailey. We never told anyone in Fortune City, Amber, you know that…not even TK.” The blonde twin fixed steel eyes upon the other…then relented, lifting up her katana an inch. “No. We didn’t. That’s a secret that wouldn’t leak easily. Not even TK—especially not him.” They both knew how much Tyrone had hated old school R&B and 3-D action adventures featuring vampiric busty heroines. “And you know me, Amber…I’m Baby Bailey, born seconds behind you…you called me that because you’re the older one…at least in a technical sense.” At this Amber finally lifted the sword from Crystal’s throat. “Alright, it’s you,” she said, satisfied, then took a step forward, pulled her sister up from the ground as she did after the last body switch in Palisades, and hugged her heartily. “Welcome back,” she said, almost wanting to cry into Crystal’s crystal-hued dress. Crystal said nothing, but returned the embrace for a few moments. Then she disengaged and walked toward another katana in the club—a spare hidden from behind a pillar. Amber looked quizzically at her sister. “You all…okay there, Crys?” “No…in fact, no, I’m not,” said the opposing Twin. She looked in the direction of Royal Plaza and sneered. Then she held her katana before her rigidly, away from Amber. “Booby," said Crystal, feeling inspired to call her sister by that interesting name although she herself had not done so in so long, "we’ve got things to do. I’ve found where TK is after all…and we Twins have a set of ugly fraternal queer quadruplets with whom we…or at least I…have unfinished business.”
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Post by Deleted on Feb 26, 2011 22:46:49 GMT -6
Hey everyone: Here's my third story. This is probably the dumbest story I've ever written, but I was in a goofy mood the other day and this just came about from it. I wanted to go in the opposite direction from my overly serious (yet still somewhat silly) story I did last time...which was also a bit long (this one's rather short, but that's sort of the point, just a quick punch of dumb fun). Hope you enjoy it (and PLEASE comment).
Q42
MAINTENANCE MERGENCES #3: “Stupid Carl Kart”
Another day, another delivery, thought Fortune’s most resourceful mailman as he made his usual Royal Flush rounds. Carl Schiff sometimes felt winded, winding around his standard route as he did, but the satisfaction of a job well done in delivering parcels to people all over town sustained him. “Paper!” he shouted, flinging the daily tabloid at the nearby Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow kiosk, expecting that the owner as always would reach out to catch it as readily as always. The routine of Carl’s route was such that he didn’t even bother to turn his head to look anymore to check whether the owner had caught it this time. Which was just as well, because unbeknownst to Carl’s cracked mind, the kiosk was now occupied by nothing but the living, shambling, ever-decaying dead. “PAPER!” he screamed again as he chucked a second periodical at another store, his dementia-diluted mind oblivious to the outlet’s display window he just shattered with the read. It was really insanity laced with annoyance; why didn’t the paperboy show up today? Carl’d had to pull double duty to pick up the slack. It wasn’t even in his contract to deliver the Fortune City Scoop, but he did it out of the love of delivery. (Meanwhile, the regular paper delivery agent, young Tim Duggan, lay flat on his back in the One Little Duck, a buffet for various bustling ghouls in the outdoor areas of the casino haven. Yes, the love of delivery, in any case, kept Carl going. And it was a delivery out of love that propelled him through the safehouse airvent, not with frayed nerves and shotgun but with fancy packages and a s**t-eating grin. “Got the goods for everyone today!” Carl hollered, his hands flailing for everyone to come down to the vent. Many girls especially flocked to him, as some were making mail order purchases online to satisfy their shopping joneses in the wake of the locality’s catastrophe. Luz Palmer was first, gleefully grabbing a long rectangular prism of a parcel—inevitably another nine to add to her quiver of clubs to use once she got out of this ordeal. Brittany Beck was overjoyed to receive her custom-ordered croupier stick, with which she could hopefully now have a chance to fend off the frenzied Stuart Holmes, with whom she was hemmed in and who wielded his own casino stave ever so fiercely. Vikki Taylor was happy to receive a package of plants, and Tammy Blaine satisfied with her package of pants. (Finally: no more going commando). And no one was more pleased than Europa Westinghouse. “I’ve got them, I’ve got them, at last!!!” exclaimed the enterprising young blonde, still clad in almost nothing, waving a small soft beige package in the air. “I’ve never had a chance to get these before! I’ve heard they’re so good, though!” Bessie Kent looked complacent from across the vent area, living vicariously through another woman’s thrill of consumer-based conquest. “I’ve finally received my clawthace!” continued Europa. “My precious clawthace!” At least it sounded like “clawthace.” Rosa Collins too looked happy for the young, very much clueless golden-haired Greek-nymph namesake. Then she leaned into Bessie’s ear. “The f**k’s ‘clawthace’?” Bessie just shrugged back, still smiling and nodding in Europa’s direction. Their mutual friend Erica Mayes decided not to stand there just wondering. She walked up to Europa and pulled her arm down to have a looksee at what this “clawthace” could possibly be. A moment later, she flashed a smug grin at her friends, then patted the nearly naked girl’s shoulder. “This says CLOTHES, honey,” the terribly tanned survivor offered to the evidently addled Europa, then sauntering back to her friends. Everyone shared a stifled snicker. Well, who could blame the blonde for failing to say it correctly, barely ever having encountered the product or embraced the concept? Carl’s own oblivious mind was unfortunately unattuned to such hilarity, as he fixated upon the one woman who mattered most to him: the elderly yet elegant Esther Alwin. No young floozy could float this mailman’s boat, no…it took a long cool woman in a captivating black dress (at least in Carl’s perception), like Esther, to grab his attention. And he had the pleasure toys she had so fervently requested. “My grandson’s favorite!” began Esther, appreciatively, as she stretched her wizened arms for the delivery which was the most special, to Carl. “Oh, Carl, he’ll be so pleased to finally receive this for next Christmas.” “It was nothing, my Erogenous Esty,” began the mailman, trying to sound gentlemanly (but inevitably coming off rather lasciviously, with an epithet like that). “Wh-what was that?” returned Esther a mite awkwardly. “Oh…nothing,” Carl quickly corrected himself. Even he could tell that calling the prim and proper lady what he did was somewhat off kilter. They shared another few pleasantries, Carl eventually regaining some modicum of confidence and composure, while he absently cast off another package to a particular male… …which, not long after reaching the intended target, was espied and snapped up by another, much more insidious man…who hungrily hugged the parcel to his pectorals…eager to host another up-for-grabs in the near future. ****************************** Oh, how was Carl to know that that last package he delivered was the key to Esther’s hoary heart! He stewed in his mail cart, raring at the steering wheel and ready to rip up the strip. The parcel in question, which was not long ago clutched to the chest of none other than the tyrannical Tyrone King, was packed with Phenotrans’s newest offering: Phenomones. Just as decades ago, the fake fad infiltrated the comic book advertisements and young minds of stifled, frustrated young men, so too was it here, now, in 2010. Pheromones! The natural phenomenon that no woman with a working libido could resist! Have all the ladies flock to your waist with the influential odor or whatever the hell it was with pheromones! But the pharm giant proved to be no Phonytrans in this endeavor. No…having gathered key critical extracts from rare, dangerous insects known as “knaves,” this new item was the real deal. Phenomones proved to be the thing that could attract anyone one wanted—basically one would become a warm body magnet, able to nab any living creature who was one’s heart’s desire. And Tyrone, being on Pheno’s payroll, was fully aware of this new advance. Of course, he didn’t need it for himself. He had all the satisfaction one could possibly want in this endeavor, his sleazy conquests making Wilt Chamberlain look like the four-thousand-year-old virgin. But Ty knew that others were in desperate want of the product. And now, amongst so many comers, three gentlemen arrived to start their engines, here on the Silver Strip. After drawing a small lottery through the bingo globe at the Little Duck (where Carl finally learned why little Timmy couldn’t make his paper route the last couple of days), a trio of contestants emerged for the sake of the parcel chase. Sergeant Dwight Boykin, ready now at the wheel of his humvee, self-assured that he would easily take down the other two bozos racing against him. Randy Tugman, embracing tightly the handlebars of a tiny pink tricycle (which so effectively complemented his pink chainsaw)…his competitors were gawking and guffawing but they didn’t know the secret bit of boost he would have in the diminutive tripod on wheels. And none other than his truly, Carl Schiff, at the helm of his trusty mail cart. Each was racing for their own objects of affection…Carl, of course for Esther; Randy, for a various assortment of possible new brides, who would surely not be added to his discard pile but rather would form part of his newly hatched plan for sexagamy (a plan to marry six women at once…his name for it was, yes, of course innuendo intended); and Dwight? Well, let’s just say that he wanted his few good men in the platoon to come back to him…most intimately. Carl gripped the wheel of his cart tightly as he waited for the chocolate- and vanilla-haired whores on either side of TK to drop their arms, signaling the beginning of the competition. The mailman gritted bitterly through the anticipation; he should have never let that package go. And “GO” was the operative word in the next moment as the Bailey Twins threw down their immaculate arms at the end of the strip, just near the Yucatan. Sure enough, the three vehicles blasted off towards their objective on the other side. Carl Schiff cantered along furiously in his mail skiff, the Sarge varoomed along in his military-issue monster…and Randy Tugman puttered along in his trike, the other two entirely unaware as to what was about to occur regarding the third “man”’s vehicle. It should have been the case, as you might have cynically predicted a few paragraphs ago, that Dwight Boykin would easily take the race, no question. After all, he was officially the biggest dog, in his hypercompensating hunter green hummer. But the reality of it was that, as Max Brooks somewhat speculated in his venerable survival guide to the undead, a four-wheel vehicle—even a humvee—did not fare the greatest in zombie traffic, especially if the carriage wasn’t convertible and the roads were woefully blocked. Which was entirely the case with Boykin’s whip, as the enclosed beast that was Boykin’s ride was bumping furiously amidst hordes of creatures and debris and suffering sorely for it. And the fact that the Sarge had torn through a number of rabid, vomiting vampiric creatures hours before with the vehicle, largely at the vehicle’s own expense, didn’t help at all, either. (The green gas zombies had somehow died down and out since, but the unleaded undeaded were still going at things in their usual quantities). And it was then, just as Sergeant Boykin and Carl the mailman were neck and neck, coursing past the Shamrock, that they heard the supersonic shout of Randy Tugman’s juvenile joyride. WHOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH, went the raging flame at the back of Tugman’s tricycle, not unlike the fireball emanating from the rear of the 1960s Batmobile as the Tug Trike (miserably dubbed by the impotent would-be-superhero Randy himself) streaked triumphantly past the pair against whom he was racing. Damn, thought Carl, as he tried to bring his cart up to thirty-five: That battery, whiskey, and motor oil, from which Randy had created his own brainchild of a jet burner, were more items he’d now regretted delivering. The mailman decided then and there that a perfect work record was the doublest-edged of swords. Fortunately for the postal plodder, Randy’s engine invention worked too well, and soon the postpubescent pile of perverseness that was Tugman the Lesser (in so many ways), after looking over his should with pride at the opponents he’d left behind, had found himself within yards of imminent impact with an outcropping near to the Motion Madness, the giant blue g-force-harnessing sphere near the entrance to Royal Flush Plaza. “WHUGGGGGHHH!” he’d exclaimed, trying to stop himself in vain as his bawdy body rocked against the trike careening into the synthetic crag, the tricycle shattering into so many fragments as its portly, pathetic rider bounced back badly against the concrete near to the gyrating azure sphere. Several meters back, while Master Randy was attempting in vain to shake out the cobwebs, the upcoming second and third places that were Dwight and Carl were catching up quickly. Just as they reached about the same position as the now-supine Tugman, however, the soldier’s humvee huffed its final hurrah, its motor bursting upon striking just one more monster milling about on the strip. And Carl, poor poor Carl…in his zeal to fulfill his postal duties hours earlier, and his haste to reach the starting line, he’d completely neglected to fill ‘er up. Even for a stretch of meters, he didn’t have enough gas to complete the course. (Yes, this is rather lame, but it’s Carl Schiff we’re talking about here). And so the three competitors sat, or lay strewn, about the course, the objects of their affection and phenomones on their minds. “Maddy,” cried Randy, thinking of Madison Lainey, the young starlet who sought to gain fame as an alluring assistant to the Roger and Reed magic show. (And yes, of course he also thought of Danni Bodine…AND Lulu Barra...AND Jessica Howe…AND the other ladies whom he’d hoped would make up his prospective sextet of spouses). Sergeant Dwight Boykin reclined ruefully in his humvee seat, allowing himself an instant to collect himself and think of his own beloved. In a cry similar to that of Randy’s, the Sergeant: “Matty…” Those man-morsels who were Matthew Kuss and Michael Woo wouldn’t be able to stave off Dwight’s advances, once he’d won those newly minted pharmaceutically-empowered pheromones. Then Carl, banging his fist against the steering column in abject fury: “Esther.” Esther. It was, seconds ago, Carl who drove, as he pushed his beloved little cart along. Now it was Esther, the thought of magnificent Esther, that drove him. “ESTHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGHHH!” bellowed Carl, filled thoroughly with lust and rage, as he bounded from his gas-thirsty mail cart and towards the Motion Madness. The Sarge caught sight of this from his now useless humvee, and took his own measures, thrusting out of his military people-mover in an effort to stop what only madmen such as he, Carl, and Randy could grasp as the mailman’s mad plan. So in turn, yes, Randy, too summoned up enough strength to try and trip up the Schiff with his giant pink chainsaw as he scrambled for the sphere. But the sprightly mail carrier was too quick, and leaped away, dodging the corpulent cad’s frightening saw as it swung shinwardly. “Come…come on,” crabbed Carl as he struggled to pry open the small doorlet into the rolling ball. It wasn’t locked or anything…the postal worker was just fumbling in his panic to get into the giant blue ball before the lewd leviathan that was Randy Tugman could bear down on him. Then, with the unrealistically superhuman flair of a cinematic action hero, the mailman stopped, propped his trusty shotgun over one shoulder, and shoved the butt of it backward, striking Randy across his nasty- ass kisser just as the chubby childling chillingly reached for him from behind. Carl then struck out with the back of his shotgun again, banging open the door to the gigantic blue sphere, climbing in, and slamming the door shut behind him. As Randy meanwhile staggered backward, struggling to shake out the cobwebs, then fell over forward to barf a bit in the midst of all this bodily abuse, Sergeant Dwight reached into his vest greedily for a grenade. Tearing off the pin with his teeth, the Sarge chucked the explosive pineapple, hoping for the small projectile to land just within the brassy bounds of Carl’s new hopeful makeshift vehicle. However, due to the soldier’s latent insanity, his aim was off a bit, and though the lobbed grenade flew somewhat gracefully through the air, it nonetheless fell short of its target… But scored a hole in one…or one in the hole, rather…right into the rear entryway of Randy Tugman as he was leaning forward to retch and ralph. The pudgy psychopath stood up to scratch his head a moment as he wondered what the blockage in his behemoth back entrance was all about. Then… BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMM “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRR…” All five hundred-some kilograms of Randy Would-Be-Batman-But-Instead-Was-Truly-Awful-Tugman Tugman launched horrifically yet somewhat terrifically into the airspace above the racers, the now-flying fatty reaching an altitude of about the highest rooftop of the Fortune Casinos before beginning a descent onto the Platinum Screens, the improvised lair of Deetz Hartman…the skeeziest redneck of the redneck snipers…who at this point was the last one left and looking to score some extra practice on these waywardly racing fools. “Yeah, I’m ‘a git ‘im!” crowed Deetz, eagerly looking through his sniperscope but instants before. “Mur’ca don’t need idjits like this in her borders!” But just as old Deetzy was about to let loose with his prized rifle… the tub of unmentionable mass that was Randy Tugman… “AAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHWHOOFFF!” …had splashed down most unceremoniously upon the hick’s hapless form, seemingly crushing to death the Appalachian antagonist, the bloated boy blunder’s buttocks emitting fireballs as his tricked out trike did just minutes before. It could be assuredly assumed that Master Tugman was removed from the competition at this point. Meanwhile: “You’re not going anywhere, bucko,” snarled Sergeant Boykin down groundside, his LMG now pointing out before him, aimed readily at Carl within the Motion Madness. But before the government-issue soldier could fire his volley of fury, the government-issue postal worker spoke out with his own gun, his shotgun blasting the supports of the blue sphere, sending the ball off its moorings. “Uuuuuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” uttered Carl helplessly as he rolled along, unintentionally caroming straight for the sergeant on the other side of the strip. Sure enough, the soldier let loose with a stream of gunfire…but the revolving ball deflected all of the bullets, leaving its occupant unharmed. It was all Dwight could do to dive out of the way at the last second before Carl’s ball rolled right over him and crashed into a fountain in the center of Fortune Park. Fortunately for the mad mailman, though, the ball didn’t get caught in the fountain, nor did it break apart or anything of that sort, but rather just bounced off, bumping the carrier back out into the middle of the strip and down straight towards the pursued-after Platinum Strip end. Everything was hopefully, finally going to fall into place for Carl after all. Gathering to his anally booted feet, Dwight could only watch as his only other competition at this point barreled down the steppes of the strip, the ball gaining more and more momentum as it murdered zombie bystanders indiscriminately. By the time the soldier imitated this in miniature by rushing to the bingo/lottery ball, ripping it off its supports, and birling along on it like a clown on a ball or a lumberjack in a…birling contest (look it up), Carl had hurtled across the finish line, his giant ball conveyance crushing into the doors of the Terror Is Reality Arena Entrance. **************************** In the ensuing minutes, Tyrone and the Twins had caught up to the victor in a Fortune City Industry Cart, the emcee swinging his majestic microphone along the way, striking the birling Dwight Boykin off his bingo ball, and knocking out the shellshocked soldier (hey, the Sarge was still very dangerous, with more grenades and his phallic ass firearm). By the time the TIR hosts reached Carl, he was still coming to from the last crash, wearily tottering out of the (giant rolling ball).
"Well, we're here now with the biiiiiiiiiiiiig winnnnnnnnnnnnerrrrrrrrrrrrr," crooned Tyrone as he grabbed Carl's wobbly arm to hold it up in victory. "The Phenomones are yours to have and enjoy as you please…"
Carl managed a weak, exhausted smile, thinking only of artificially seducing Esther in his dazed reverie.
"…at least what's left of them, in any case!"
This last was met with a spastic glare by the maddened mail carrier. What did TK mean by that? He searched the blank smiles of the Twins, as well as the shaded gaze of the TIR master of ceremonies, and found nothing.
****************************
It was back at the safehouse that Carl found out what it meant.
"Whaddya MEAN you're going off with him!?" screamed the scrawny parcel deliveryman, once he saw his beloved Esther…on the arm of the biggest charlatan Bohemian artiste he'd ever seen.
"Oh, you're sweet, Carl," started Esther, waving him off as she hugged the bereted beefcake of sorts alongside her, "And you did so well in that little…competition and what not. But I like a man who takes his time…a man with vision…a man with dreams, and artsiness…"
And it was then that Carl caught sight of a small vial just beyond the artiste that was Randolph Allen, a container of the famed Phenotrans Phenomones, from the package which was originally addressed to Randolph TUGMAN but somehow instead accidentally found its way into the hands of the artsy fartsy Randolph instead…as it worked out, it appeared that Carl's work record hadn't been so perfect after all. Delivering to the wrong Randolph and what not, a man of his mail carrying caliber! He should've been ashamed.
"We're going to be wed soon enough, and by none other than the father of another Randolph," said Esther proudly "once old Emanuel can get his son off that rooftop, that is."
Carl could only stand and gape with his jaw slack at this.
"I'm going to be a new woman…Esther Alwin-Allen…isn't that right, my dear Randy?" the kindly old lady piped.
"That's right, my little masterstroke," returned the artistic failure yet seductive success that was Randolph Allen, as he leaned in for a peck on Esther's cheek.
Standing there steaming in the safehouse and taking all this in, after all he went through, it was enough for someone like Carl to, well…
…culminate his career the same way all disgruntled postal workers did.
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