One of the few reviews I got (You people make me sad! No love!) didn't
understand what was going on. C'mon people! If you can't at least figure
out two of the characters, I'm very disappointed. This time around, there
is no excuse. If you can't figure out who is who, your just retarded. This
takes place at the exact same time as the sequel.
Plague Mutation Chapter 1: Bad Day. By kagato23 Kagato23@yahoo.com
"We all have our bad days" Who the fuck said that? Sure, everybody says it. But somebody had to have voiced this universal truth into those particular words. Probably some idiot with a book to sell on Tv, with a plastic smile acquired and accentuated by the shitloads of money the author had gained more then any of his or her "patented techniques" to a better life.
Well, he was having a really fucking bad day.
Not that he really had any good days. They were all bad days. But every so often, one particularly bad day would come along, one he'd remember through the dim haze of general suckiness that seemed to comprise his existence. Hell, almost all he really had were bad memories. He wondered briefly if his inability to remember most of his life was because he'd once had good memories, or if his brain had just decided to dump a previous lot of crap and make more room.
Then his attention turned back to the causes of today's badness. For starters, there was the incident at Stuff Your Belly with Bagels (he loved that name). The assholes he was used to, those were common place. But he'd asked for blueberry, and gotten raspberry! Raspberry! Honestly. And slitting the throats of everybody there with a butter knife, that was exhausting. His arms were cramped like a scrunchies dipped in prune juice.
Additionally, he should have worn a jacket today. It was cold. Really cold. If he didn't remember he still needed food to live, he wouldn't have gone out today. Why couldn't he have remembered yesterday? Also, the voices in his head seemed slightly louder today. He'd had them screaming before, so it wasn't that big a deal. Hell, some idiot was screaming much louder on the street. But in addition, his nose had become intolerably itchy for no apparent reason. It was enough to drive a person madder.
Because his day was still salvageable at this point, it was as if he had to ram head on into somebody. Not just anybody, somebody holding paints. Naturally, it got all over him. That was really bad. That meant he'd have to wash. And that involved touching himself.
"GOD DAMN IT!" He screamed to nobody and everybody in particular.
"FUCK!" Screamed the bumper.
Wait a minute...
***
"We all have our bad days" Who the fuck said that? Sure, everybody says it. But somebody had to have said it first. She recalled him saying that once in one of their conversations, but that really didn't count for much. Somebody had obviously said it before him. Still, him saying it figured most prominently in her mind. She hated how he did that to her, even now.
Anyway, whoever said it, she was having a really fucking bad day.
The whispering was picking up again. She'd gotten completely used to blocking it out at this point, and it'd been growing fainter and fainter. But suddenly, it was stronger. Not too strong, but strong enough to be an annoyance, especially when she was carrying excessive amounts of art supplies. Plus, it was annoyingly cold, and her fingers were going numb.
"SHUT UP!" She finally screamed to the sky, as she stumbled over a crack and stubbed her toe. That was just the breaking point for her silence. And then, because things weren't bad enough, she managed to ram into somebody. All her expensive paints spilled over the poor bastard, and her fingers, regaining circulation, were having that "pins and needles" effect she despised.
"GOD DAMN IT!" The bumpee screamed.
"FUCK" She returned, already in the screaming mood.
Wait a minute...
***
"Nny?" The bumper asked.
"Devi?" The bumpee returned.
"..."
"..."
"..."
"..."
"Um... hi."
"Hey."
"..."
"..."
***
Yeah. And there we go. That ending would look a lot better on tv or comic, but hey. I work with what I have. Now, If you had to wait till the end to figure out who was who, your stupid. Don't become a doctor. Cause you know, you'd be operating or something and end up pulling out the liver and eating it cause you thought it was a turd. Cause I bet you eat turds, don't you ya little monkey? Yeah yeah, I'll come over there and say it! BRING THE NOISE BIOTCH! . Okay, I'm done. Review this, or I'll cures your keyboard to make your fingers smell like pig grease and hay. You will not want to sniff them!
Plague Mutation Chapter 1: Bad Day. By kagato23 Kagato23@yahoo.com
"We all have our bad days" Who the fuck said that? Sure, everybody says it. But somebody had to have voiced this universal truth into those particular words. Probably some idiot with a book to sell on Tv, with a plastic smile acquired and accentuated by the shitloads of money the author had gained more then any of his or her "patented techniques" to a better life.
Well, he was having a really fucking bad day.
Not that he really had any good days. They were all bad days. But every so often, one particularly bad day would come along, one he'd remember through the dim haze of general suckiness that seemed to comprise his existence. Hell, almost all he really had were bad memories. He wondered briefly if his inability to remember most of his life was because he'd once had good memories, or if his brain had just decided to dump a previous lot of crap and make more room.
Then his attention turned back to the causes of today's badness. For starters, there was the incident at Stuff Your Belly with Bagels (he loved that name). The assholes he was used to, those were common place. But he'd asked for blueberry, and gotten raspberry! Raspberry! Honestly. And slitting the throats of everybody there with a butter knife, that was exhausting. His arms were cramped like a scrunchies dipped in prune juice.
Additionally, he should have worn a jacket today. It was cold. Really cold. If he didn't remember he still needed food to live, he wouldn't have gone out today. Why couldn't he have remembered yesterday? Also, the voices in his head seemed slightly louder today. He'd had them screaming before, so it wasn't that big a deal. Hell, some idiot was screaming much louder on the street. But in addition, his nose had become intolerably itchy for no apparent reason. It was enough to drive a person madder.
Because his day was still salvageable at this point, it was as if he had to ram head on into somebody. Not just anybody, somebody holding paints. Naturally, it got all over him. That was really bad. That meant he'd have to wash. And that involved touching himself.
"GOD DAMN IT!" He screamed to nobody and everybody in particular.
"FUCK!" Screamed the bumper.
Wait a minute...
***
"We all have our bad days" Who the fuck said that? Sure, everybody says it. But somebody had to have said it first. She recalled him saying that once in one of their conversations, but that really didn't count for much. Somebody had obviously said it before him. Still, him saying it figured most prominently in her mind. She hated how he did that to her, even now.
Anyway, whoever said it, she was having a really fucking bad day.
The whispering was picking up again. She'd gotten completely used to blocking it out at this point, and it'd been growing fainter and fainter. But suddenly, it was stronger. Not too strong, but strong enough to be an annoyance, especially when she was carrying excessive amounts of art supplies. Plus, it was annoyingly cold, and her fingers were going numb.
"SHUT UP!" She finally screamed to the sky, as she stumbled over a crack and stubbed her toe. That was just the breaking point for her silence. And then, because things weren't bad enough, she managed to ram into somebody. All her expensive paints spilled over the poor bastard, and her fingers, regaining circulation, were having that "pins and needles" effect she despised.
"GOD DAMN IT!" The bumpee screamed.
"FUCK" She returned, already in the screaming mood.
Wait a minute...
***
"Nny?" The bumper asked.
"Devi?" The bumpee returned.
"..."
"..."
"..."
"..."
"Um... hi."
"Hey."
"..."
"..."
***
Yeah. And there we go. That ending would look a lot better on tv or comic, but hey. I work with what I have. Now, If you had to wait till the end to figure out who was who, your stupid. Don't become a doctor. Cause you know, you'd be operating or something and end up pulling out the liver and eating it cause you thought it was a turd. Cause I bet you eat turds, don't you ya little monkey? Yeah yeah, I'll come over there and say it! BRING THE NOISE BIOTCH! . Okay, I'm done. Review this, or I'll cures your keyboard to make your fingers smell like pig grease and hay. You will not want to sniff them!