Rin's pathetic excuse of a computer is still, well, pathetic. Do I really have to complain about it? I mean, MY computer is working just fine. ;D
She scribbled this out into a note on her phone and texted it to me. (as you can guess it took several texts)
I refuse to play text tag with this crap, so basically it's gotten a basic grammar and spelling edit (since I suck at both you can guess the QUALITY of said edit) and is COMPLETELY without our usual simplifying attempts. So the metaphors run rampant and any readers suffering from should run like little crazy scardy people who are scared…
I particularly like the staring contest down there. I find it delicious. I mean, come on, how often do you get such an awesome description of "if looks could kill"?
*~(O w O)~*
Bye, baby bumpkin
Where's Tony Lumpkin
Every few months there comes a time of gloom. A little period of depressed exhaustion and frayed nerves usually lasting a moment or two after a harrowing epic in which the hero, his companions, and the occasional temporary ally risk life, limb, and hygiene to wage battle against would be conquerors of their little city. This smattering of emotion from the half ghost typically follows a bittersweet triumph, though he has been known to brood even after a joyous trumping of ectoplasmic villainy. A moment or two, that's all it was, with perhaps a poetic lament on the world of heroing and its tragedies, impregnating the silence with a philosophy so profound it could do nothing for these battle hardened victors but birth an epiphany. The dawn of an idea whose nativity threatened to rupture the foundation of their individual ivory towers.
Lucky enough for the lot of them this life altering conception, this mating of war wounds and duty, the seeds of doubt meeting the nurturing womb of justice, was easily enough aborted. To this date the ideology was never delivered, the dogma never carried to full term, meeting instead the glinting steel of the modern worlds knife, wielded by the simple reality of teenage attention spans. Miscarried out onto the small gathering of champions the flopping fetus of philosophy lay bloodied and deformed, wetting the feet of the college bound who would, without fail, choose a simple relaxing day off in replacement of pondering life's secret turmoil.
Off they fled, off to moving images depicting plot-less explosions, nudity, and a fatality of the quality they had barely managed to avoid, macabre, poignant, futile. They scattered in a few directions, their sullied bodies and soiled cloths shrieking for detergent and bath, loud proclamations called to one another to reconvene for unwinding purposes at Sam's house. No decision was yet made on the feature they would watch, but such minor details could always be determined at a later time.
Now was the moment to cleans, to find themselves solitary confines and release their private evils to the cascade of the shower and scrub away the remnants of uncertainty and exposure left to them by the demise of the twisted logic they were unwittingly escaping from. Soaps would wash more than green slime and bloodstains from their aching bodies.
The home of Samantha Manson was luxurious and sensible both, with trivialities alongside the necessities, casual beside formal, religion matched to acquaintance. Her home theater would, upon first consideration of it, seem obtrusive, but only because most who envision it visualize it within their own meager residence, unknown to them is her vast basement dwelling, with high quality surround sound and adjacent bowling alley, her cinema-quality popcorn and soda dispensers, and of course her majestic standing with the local takeout restaurants who convey their wares to her doorstep at speeds DC Comic's Barry Allen would applaud. Even if delivery was never an advertised selection of theirs.
When the driver arrived, stumbling out of his vehicle it had been with a stack of wide boxes up to his clavicle. Sam tipped exceptionally well, that was known, and so he treated the pizzas like gems to be presented before royalty. The fragrance of hot tomato sauce blanketed by select cheeses melting to a multi-colored slime, like mucus secreted from the steaming bread that housed the concoction, filled the sublevel. Layered atop this ocean of scorching substance were varieties set to the preference of fussy cavorters well set in their predilection. A craftsman at his finest, the pizzas were cooked to a perfection only a trip to Naples would deflect, and furnished with trappings fit to scandalize aforementioned Neapolitans.
It was a party, and the pies were dressed for revelry.
The movie was a brilliant rebound of a disappointing sequel to a refreshingly original seventies action flick. They watched the progression of a well known protagonist needing little introduction as he traversed the fictional reality of a movie maker's soundstage with a new female acquaintance that would undoubtedly become his love interest. She may have been the same from the previous movie, but the actress had changed so undoubtedly the scripter's had scribed a new adoration for their hero. The story was mildly complex but the fast paced timeline and constant use of explosions kept the less intellectual amongst them occupied.
The pizzas were strewn about at random, but never out of reach of its intended owner, so that they could sample each other's pickings, scavenging the discarded toppings when someone found a slice to their disliking and chose to dismantle it. The dark room lit up with orange and yellow fire as a terrorist's bomb detonated and a large, regal looking building fell to its mini-apocalypse. Mesmerized by the destruction the teens sat hushed, draped across furniture or arranged on the floor, chaos they did not have to prevent, pandemonium they did not have to calm, lives they did not have to rescue. Reality they did not have to live in.
"Who thinks that chick looks like Ember?" Dani quipped with a smile as a punk-goth teenager with her hair on fire ran by the screen, screaming in agony and bypassing a very large fountain several yards into the background to tumble down the escalator into the oblivion of the floor below. The main character and his sarcastic, but still fairly damsel in distress, womanly companion ran in the opposite direction, not even bothering to stop and help, or instruct the other panicking victims on how to make good an escape from this nightmarish hell.
A group of scoundrels, bad guy goons with wrestler bodies and military strides stuffed into casual wear, drew polished guns from indistinguishable harnesses in slow motion. Bullets whizzed by, icing a few bystanders while the leading roles remained astoundingly unscathed.
"You know, for once I'd like to see the main character, you know, bite it." Valerie commented derisively. "Like, right in the middle of the movie, big assed action scene too."
"Hell yeah!" Dash, who had muscled his way into the scarlet chair kin to Sam's, hooted, "You always know they're gonna make it through, just get um in the head right as they come around the corner." He used a sock-clad toe to poke the back of Danny's skull, who was currently lounging on the floor by his feet. The glance the ghost child shot out was cold and lethal, a pistol from a fuming sufferer aimed to his everlasting tormentor, any error, a noise, an action, a flinch, and the tragedy is triggered, the casualty innumerable. In the span of a heartbeat the skirmish is fought, the gun mentally grappled over, the hallways of their minds littered with discarded arguments and threats neither will decide to play. An instant, Dash's mocking grin melts to soft butter, his intimidator's frigid lakes droop, lashes quivering as the tense arms of a gunman's would as both firearm and stare lower. "Get the girl too, brains all over everything," Dash continues.
Danny stretched to reach for Dash's pizza, unsurprised when his arm is captured and he is pulled up into the sportsman's embrace. Curling into a barreled chest he snagged a portion from the box.
"Bad guy wins." Sam smirked from her own chair. "I like it
"Nmph." Danny said with a pizza slice crowded to capacity in his mouth. "Movie goes on, but what do they do next?" he chewed in thought, the screen had moved to a stairwell, characters vaulting over concrete banisters with skill and grace, slowed down to allow the viewer ample time to absorb the artful way coattails fluttered and manes of styled hair billowed about in shimmering mantles.
"Maybe show the rest of the villain's plot." Tucker reached for a new wedge of meat covered cheese and tomato, "Have them, I don't know, try to reach the goal." His pupils never left the screen, utterly immersed in the chase down the flight of steps, eyes round he observed two contenders misstep, appearing to trip on unoccupied space and hurdle over the next banister, plummeting off screen.
Danny had curved his head to study his friend in the glow of the TV when the coffee complexioned adolescent had picked up the conversation, stare immediately fixing on the pie his fingers were plucking at. Peach lips compress between powerful pearls, tortured as corners firmed a stifled grin. Leg extended he nudged Sam, indicating their mutual comrade. The morbid youth too realized what her friend was about to ingest. "Then," he expertly coiled strings of melted mozzarella without casting his gaze from the large, flat portal to another realm, "right at the end when you think the worlds gonna go to hell and nobody can stop it," he rose the segment closer to his lips, Valerie and Dani now privy to his act watched him in awe. Dash had no knowledge of his new associate's aversion to plant life, so was at a loss as to the reason everyone found Tucker about to eat a slice of vegetarian pizza so dramatically enthralling. "Right when the bad guys are ready to pull off their best, and well…conquer the world or whatever the crap they're trying to do. Some really stupid thing happens, like an earthquake hits or one of the bobs they always carry goes off, or maybe the lead bad guy ingests something and" he paused to take a bite, jaws working over his meal while his mind worked the possibilities.
He paused.
A long hiatus charted its way through his psyche, skipping over the cars of the train he was passenger to a sensation invaded the vehicle and hijacked his thoughts, dragging it to the door and fleeing into the darkness of his mind with intellect in tow. All that was left was taste, and the understanding that it should not be what it is.
"Aw, gross!" he spat. Flinging the slice back to its cardboard confines and jettisoning himself from carpet, abandoning to movie and his plotline for the assurance of a bathroom with toilet for gagging and toothpaste for washing.
The remaining occupants laughed until they couldn't breathe.
Then, gasping, laughed again.
My lady's on her death-bed,
For eating half a pumpkin
S( C{{`)3
It's a fish lol my page breaks are fun.
Well, Rin said it all "came to her" (lol it sounds like she's communing with aliens or something) in the form of an image of Tucker accidentally eating Sam's veggie pizza because he was paying more attention to the movie. Then she had to come up with a way to get everybody together to watch a movie, and of course we all know she has this deranged compulsion to add slash everywhere. It's like a form of turrets or something.
See you when I see you
niKola