MSPA fan-fiction

[Crvens]

Yay! More peoples in this thread. And more great fanfiction!

Also, because recontextualizing lines is fun:

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Heat

He slammed the door of the apartment closed, running a hand through his hair. Man, having to work for a living was not cool. Neither was the apartment. The air conditioner was busted, again, and he had learned his lesson about leaving windows open. Everything was too hot.
But he could put up with the heat. Not being assaulted by puppets and crows was worth it. Plus there were other benefits to not living with his bro anymore.
He strode into the kitchen, wondering where his flatmate was. Yanking open the fridge (and not having to dodge a collection of shitty weaponry), he pulled out a can of apple juice and popped it open. Then he finally noticed the open bottle on the table.
Footsteps. A pair of arms suddenly wrapped around his body, one delicate hand removing his shades while the other slipped beneath his shirt. Soft curves pressed against his back, lips, smelling faintly of alcohol, nibbling his ear.
Strider, said a low, husky voice, I am on fire.
Way too hot.

I... you...

[Tenebrais]

Chapter Four!

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While Jade was busy, John and I returned to our game. With the queen on my side, victory was all but assured. John managed to capture my remaining pawn, but when I managed to capture his bishop he had no choice but to resign. Nonetheless, well played, John Egbert.
Our game complete, I packed away the chess set and we returned downstairs. John's father and my mother were talking cordially about some trivial matter in the kitchen. I could scarcely imagine what insidious scheme she might have been implementing. John and I went and sat in the lounge area. I took out my laptop to check on the latest Midnight Crew update, which we started to discuss. He had some strange ideas about it and the fictional Doctor Brinner sub-comic being set in the same universe. But then I've written Spades-Itchy slash fiction, so who am I to judge.

Note to self: make sure my writing journals are especially well hidden.

Jade emerged from the bathroom, looking considerably cleaner. She was also grinning widely. If there's one thing I love about Jade, it's that she could never hold a grudge. Half an hour later she's forgotten whatever it is she was angry about.
“Hi Rose! Hi John!” she called cheerfully as she charged toward us. “Am I better now?”
She grabbed me in a hug again. I tried to catch her scent, but all I could smell was the faint smell of soap. She had really done a very good job. Her hair was still a mess, if now a rather damp mess, but it will be a long time before I try to tackle that monster. At least now I could satisfactorily eat dinner with her.
“Much better!” I congratulated. Out of the corner of my eye, John looked slightly disappointed. Strange boy. His mood improved markedly when Jade moved over to hug him, though. She would spend the rest of our time together with at least one arm around one of us.
True to my suspicions, Bec followed her out. He gave me a look, as though he had seen my challenge and defeated me. I feared that earning his respect back would be considerably more difficult. Would an old dog harbour a grudge? Jade has implied that he's even older than she is. It sounds like he has even accompanied her grandfather on some of his adventures, presumably as a pup. Just how old is he anyway?

Later on, Jade showed us her computer. Her Lunchtop, she called it. I was stunned. It was some sort of hologram, commanded by some forms of waving her fingers that I couldn't figure out. Once John and I had become accustomed to the system, we started to compare some of the things we had been working on. Jade presented some of the music she had written recently. John described some of his attempts at programming, since naturally he could not bring his computer. I wouldn't dare share my writing, but I did show them some of my psychoanalytical notes for Dave. After all, he wasn't around to object. It was his fault for turning up late.

We whiled away the time, and the Strider brothers had yet to arrive. It was not until Mom had almost finished cooking and began to place food on the table that Dave and his brother rang. Except that ringing the doorbell would simply not be Dave's style. He will never do anything the way it is intended. No, they had brought an old portable stereo, the sort that still took cassette tapes. His arrival was announced by a loud, obnoxious rap beat, with Dave free-styling over it. He had found what may well be the only worse way of announcing one's presence than ringing our doorbell. You have to credit him, though. It was certainly creative. Dave can be very annoying, made worse by the fact that he is well aware that he is annoying and continues regardless. Nonetheless, he has quite a wit, and really he's a lot more intelligent than his image would convey.

Dave's brother switched off their stereo and left it by the door. The two of them took the two remaining spaces on the table. Finally, I turned to our meal. Mom had opted to cook a British-style Sunday roast. I cannot fathom the reason – for one thing, it was a Tuesday – but she had managed to pull it off better than I had expected. Roast pork, potatoes, carrots, parsnips, pumpkin (Dave informed me that that was more of an Australian thing; I don't know how he found that one out) and Yorkshire puddings. She had even made a plate for the dog.
The meal was, actually, very good.

Chapter Five

[Qukeza]

Tenebrais: I start with you because unfortunately, you have not been getting the praise you undoubtedly deserve. Vague platitudes such as "this is really good" or "I like it very much" are not my style, so please excuse me if I express myself in the statement: please, for the love of God, continue your work of art.

Layra: That's hot.

Soniku64: I like the vignettes, even if they're relatively safe explorations (I suppose they wouldn't be vignettes if you expanded upon a new direction for the wanderers based on their already known characteristics, though).

GenaLeah: If you want a suggestion, do a time-change fic with travel in two or three dimensions of time instead of travel in one. It'll be SO COOL.

Anyway, there are two new pieces of fiction here because both are short. Both are PostYou, which is what I have come to call the Wayward Vagabond's notes in the margin of whatever books he chooses to write in.

Foodlust:

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Never let anyone tell you the world is cruel.

It might help if I define my terms. By world, I mean this six-sextillion tonne of iron, silicon and oxygen that barely cradles less sentient lifeforms than the average household. It's not cruel, because macroscopic balls of inorganic matter do not have personality characteristics. Additionally, if a personality characteristic were applied to a large mass of mostly unliving metal, I would choose to describe this one as relatively benevolent, if not a close synonym of unique. The odds of my "countrymen" releasing me on a planet hospitable to life while zooming through interstellar space are, if you'll pardon the pun, astronomical. But I mean more.

By world, I mean everything. Entirety. The whole shabang, the kit and kaboodle. All she wrote. The universe. The universe is not cruel because the only thing that should come after "the universe is" that does not change over time is a period. The universe is not cruel because it's all we have. By definition. But I mean more.

By world, I mean that comfortable little social emplacement you claim for yourself. I say this because the chances of you (with the number of people that "you" implies should there be a "you") not having any social interaction seem about as slim as the chances of someone finding this in the first place.

Maybe you're an archaeologist, digging this up and inspecting it for the first time in unfamiliar tongue. Tell your whole crew I said, "hi". Drink a few extra beers for me when you go out tonight. I really could use them.

Maybe you're a student, reading this years after it's discovered because you have a report due, or your teacher told you to. Maybe you're one of the kids who reads ahead. Good for you. There'll be a quiz on this chapter; take some notes. Learn, so that you don't become expendable. Sorry, that should say, "no longer stay expendable". Considering the nature of organic beings in large numbers, it's hard for me to assume most individuals in your society place value on the truly priceless lives of even one sapient creature. At least that hasn't changed from my past to my present.

Maybe you're a struggling artist, eking out an existence by drawing the most gruesome of pictures for the dirtiest of people, but stretching every dignity-empty dollar gained to its absolute maximum so you can survive. If so, stop reading this and get to work, you slacker.

Maybe you're another stranded soul on this sandy sphere that has killed me. I'm not really sure what to say at this point. I feel some anger, a lot of regret and massive quantities of bittersweet victory in that this is, out of all the situations where at least one person would actually read this, the most likely one to happen. Anyway, go ahead and eat my body. You're probably as hungry as I am right now, and I have no use for it anymore.

But it doesn't really matter who you are. Because whoever you are, I would do the most horrible things, to the least deserving people that could ever exist, to know that a sideways glance at your happiness could be found on any side of this planet. And I am, compared to every single thing else that exists, in the incalculable upper echelons of the luckiest group of atoms currently existing.

The hastily-scribbled-on biology textbook hitting the side of my knee as I walk is proof of both statements.

We tried to stay together, and work to find or cultivate food. Nothing grew; nothing stockpiled lasted. After I met him on that first day I was nothing but a drain on his resources. Dr. Brinner, on the other hand, taught me everything I needed to know about this world. He wrote it all down in his textbook, and if you can read it I hope you do so.

It's really a testament to how cruel this world is when, as a biological vegetarian, I say it's a shame I had to kill Dr. Brinner for food.

Though he wasn't as bad as I expected.

Preparations:

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It occurred to me while digging through the files filled with storehouse locations in the city of Wherever, Hell to ask myself why I like mayors so much.

I'm not as good a psychologist as my late companion (he called himself a psychiatrist even though you can't provide medicine to those sans metabolism) but I didn't mind making a few educated guesses as I deciphered the local language and figured out some maps.

I like mayors because they possess what I need: power over my surroundings. Mayors are the epitome of directed cooperation: they see a problem and collaborate to solve it in a manner that benefits both mayor and populace. These actions change the surroundings much for the better, but I can do none of this here.

I like mayors because they possess what I lack: a place in a functioning, civil and democratic society. I lack that now and I lacked that before I came here to be stranded in hell. But at least before I came here there was someone else to talk to.

I like mayors because they possess what I want: the locations of other living sapients and the ability to communicate with them. On the more immediate timescale, they have the blueprints and region maps for every section and building in whichever city they represent.

I found the blueprints and maps before I could think of another reason, though it probably would have been another contrast to my previous situation in that monarchy, which somehow was more of a hell than this planet. One warehouse filled with consumables, kept cold. One warehouse designated "military", and with pieces of the blueprint missing. One labeled "personal goods", with concrete description of content missing.

Once inside the first, I headed straight for dried and canned goods. Some canned carrot and potato, some dried apricot and some red pepper. "Load up on all the foods that have high vitamin A and C content, though don't expect something crazy like Camu Camu". Page seventy-two, in the left margin.

The water from the cans was enough to revitalize my mouth, so I started eating the assorted items. A few cans filled me up, and I sprinkled some sugar and a little salt in the remaining drinking water to... do what, exactly? Even with the addition, it tasted like the sweat that drips from my nether regions walking through the desert. But it's the only water clean enough to drink. Goddamn, I don't know what I'd do without my can opener.

The next warehouse proved a little more troublesome to enter, but I managed even though there wasn't much in there I wanted. If there were someone else to appreciate the joke, I could have taken the black facepaint. I settled for some nice boots and a pistol with one bullet, hidden in my rags under my left arm. Then I went back and got six more. It'd be a shame if the first only maimed and the second was still here on the island, laughing at me.

I don't understand what was in the last warehouse. What was that rubber tube? Why did it have ribs and a rounded top? If it were a bludgeoning object surely it wouldn't flop around as it did.

Whereas the metal rod could surely kill a man if wielded against him. I pushed the button on the base, hoping for a reaction. The rod vibrated for half a second until battery acid shot out and I almost got hit by the spurt. Intimidating, for sure.

I walked past the boxes filled with colorful chains of stone-sized beads (fashion has no reason) and into a group of... I didn't understand what at the time.

Realizing what the figures were, I instantly chided myself for turning away. Why would you turn away? There's nothing wrong with this. If humans wish to correctly detail anatomy on mannequins obviously meant for clothing display, let them do so without judging their free, democratic and peaceful society using the values you learned in our society while deprived of these things. I poked one of the mannequins on the arm and it compressed a bit too much. Maybe it needed more air? I tried using one of the pumps I found, but couldn't get it to work. Then I decided none of this seemed important, really.

On my way out I saw some small, slim boxes with humans posed on the covers. They didn't look like Dr. Brinner, for some reason...

Just now, writing this, I realize how naïve I must sound. These people on the covers were male, and Dr. Brinner must have been female! That's why he didn't have those absurd chest extensions. It's silly, now that I think about it.

Anyway, I'm writing this outside the third warehouse, trying to think if I saw a dock or shipyard here and yes, I did see one on what used to be a beach below. So with my biology textbook, journal and shopping cart full of supplies, it's time to leave these white cliffs behind me and cross what was once called the Channel.

Wish me luck.

[Nopad]

"personal goods"

[Tenebrais]

Episode Five: The Empire Strikes Back

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After dinner, my mother suggested we do something together as a group, now that we were all here. Somehow the subject of Monopoly came up. Hoping to avoid a prolonged game, I pointed out that over the years we had lost most of the playing pieces for our game, and in any case with so many players a game would not be satisfying. John's father said not to worry, as had brought his own much-loved copy of the game that he had bought in London several years ago. He promptly went to fetch it.
This was perhaps the first sign that our guardians were collaborating here, which I found odd. How would organising things with them get at me? The other guardians wouldn't try to ruin our fun; John's father loves him too much, Dave's brother respects him too much, and Jade's dog is far too loyal to betray my friends. Hmm.

It seemed I was the only one not enthusiastic about playing this game. It would not surprise me that John's household would be too good an environment for him to have seen the crueller side of it. Jade is far too naive to imagine an argument breaking out. Dave and his brother practically live off competition and backstabbing. I tried to put on a cheerful face toward the game.
We laid out both boards on the dining table, overlapping on the Free Parking space. Sixteen sets of properties, in total. More than enough for a prolonged game. Each of us took a playing piece, including Bec, who I began to suspect had played this game before. I was the iron. The game started well enough; within a few laps of the figure-of-eight everybody had gained something to work with. Dave managed to get Park Place and Boardwalk; his brother got Mayfair and Park Lane. Both of them refused to build anything on those properties. Sometimes they really take it too far; if I ever get drawn in to their bizarre games of irony, I am going to kill myself. Ironically.
Jade was the first to lose. She had been mismanaging her money, building up as much as she could on Baltic Avenue without any really coming in. She lost what remained landing on one of my houses (specifically, Fleet Street). Dave's brother was next, losing everything to Mom. By this point, Jade had fallen asleep, resting her head on Dave's lap. I'm not sure if she intended to or not, but it was amusing. Even Dave seemed to think so. I was surprised that he didn't take the opportunity to mess with her.

The game wore on without major upset. We played for hours. By midnight, Dave, John's father, my mother and I remained in the game. I was flagging; I had very little money left, but Mr. Egbert was coming up to my lucrative yellow properties. My turn came round, and I rolled the dice. Double four. Okay, I rolled again. Three and two. I landed on Mayfair.
Which my mother had built a hotel upon.
I hate Mayfair.
Losing all of my money to my mother (and thus losing the game) I let out a scream of frustration and fled to my room. So this is how she planned to do it; embarrassing me in front of my friends. I was no doubt in for more of this sort of ritual humiliation.

I stewed in my rage for a few minutes, when my rather cathartic reverie was interrupted by Dave coming in. Presumably, he had lost soon after, leaving the two parents to wage war over this bizarre amalgamation of Atlantic City and London.
“You alright, Rose?” he asked.
“What do you want?” I spat at him.
“You took that really bad. Something up?” He came and sat on my bed with me, which I begrudgingly permitted him to do.
“Can't you see? It's my mother! Every time things start to go my way she gets involved to ruin it! Look how she humiliated me there!”
“You sure she did it deliberately? I mean, she can't have made the dice roll.”
“Fine, take her side.”
Dave rethought his strategy. “Rose, listen. Me and my Bro do this sort of thing all the time. It's what bros do, you know? Always trying to get under each other's skin. You just gotta roll with the punches, you know?”
I sat up next to him and gave him a Look, but said nothing.
“Listen,” he continued, “if you just flip out like that and hide in your room, it means your mom's won. You want to let her win?”
“No...” I responded, cautiously.
“Well, show her you can handle that sort of shit. Prove she can't get under your skin. Just take it like a man. Even if you're a woman.”
I sighed, and rested my head on his shoulder. “I'm being silly, aren't I?”
“Yeah, you are,” he said. Then, “but that's how I like you.”

I later found out that Dave hadn't lost; he'd resigned specifically to come up and comfort me. He's annoying, but when he gets his act together, he can be a real gentleman.

Part 6

[resdaMalos]

I later found out that Dave hadn't lost; he'd resigned specifically to come up and comfort me. He's annoying, but when he gets his act together, he can be a real gentleman.

D'AWWWW

Great writing, by the way. You have a good grasp of everyone's personalities.

[Nopad]

AW man I want to play that game.

[Tenebrais]

Part six is done! It seems fitting that I write this nighttime scene at 2AM.

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By 1AM, the eight of us came to the mutual decision that it was far too late for Mom and John's dad to continue competing for the win. Thus, we called an end to it. The winner, decided based on how much money they had accrued, turned out to be Mr Egbert – I confess I suppressed a feeling of glee at the fact that Mom had lost.
By then, John looked absolutely shattered. Jade also seemed tired, but I do not know whether that was due to the time or just part of her condition. It was impossible to tell with Dave – he never takes off those sunglasses, and he's not energetic at the best of times. As for myself, I was definitely tired. I wasn't sure how much longer I could stay up.

Our house is open-plan. While privacy is not difficult to find for the two of us, eight is a different story altogether. It didn't prove to be that necessary, though. John and I took turns in my room to change into our nightclothes; Dave just took off his shirt, and Jade had whatever arcane contraption she has to change her clothes into bright blue Squiddles pyjamas. I was too tired to stop myself laughing. She was too tired to care.
Once we were all suitably dressed and washed, we trudged into my room together to sleep.
“John, you've got that sleeping bag,” I instructed, “Dave, yours is that one. Jade, you're with me.”
Dave snickered, but I ignored him as I climbed into bed. Jade and I could just about fit in it together without touching each other. Before settling into sleep, I sat up and looked around my room. At my friends, who were here with me, for the first time in our lives.
“Guys,” I said, softly, getting their attention. “Nice to have you over.”
“Nice to be here,” replied John.
“Yeah,” whispered Jade.
“What he said,” Dave murmured.
With that, I sunk into bed, and drifted off to sleep.

I do not typically remember my dreams. On occasion, one will breach my memory, and they tend to have a theme. Or at least a common location. I have consulted as much psychoanalytical literature as I could find, and the fact that all of my dreams take place in a place that I have never been to seems to bear little relevance. Regardless, this dream stuck out in my mind, because this time Jade was there. I don't remember why she was there or what we did together; I just remember her being there. Odd.

I woke with a start. I'm not sure what woke me, whether it was something I dreamt or something I heard. Or felt. I soon noticed that Jade had her arms around me, hugging me in her sleep. I don't think that was what woke me – by the feel of it, she'd been lying like that for a long time. I turned, careful not to disturb her, and looked at my clock. Quarter past four, give or take. It was then I noticed that Dave was missing. Okay, maybe he'd gone to the bathroom... but no, John was gone too. What were those two up to?
I tried to nudge Jade awake, to see if we could hunt down the boys together. But no, she was completely out of it. I wish I could sleep as soundly as her, sometimes. Admittedly, only at those times when my mother is doing her best to annoy me in the middle of the night. Regardless, Jade wasn't waking, and I didn't want to go too far to try and make her. I wriggled out of her hold and crept out of the bed, and out of my bedroom.
The lights were off in the living room, but there was still enough moonlight filtering through the windows to just barely see by. I could make out the image of Dave's brother asleep on one of the sofas, and Bec was curled up in the corner. It's easy to tell that Dave takes heavily after his “Bro” – the man was also sleeping bare-chested. Still, the elder Strider had a somewhat more toned, muscular form that was rather more pleasing to the eye. Dave often tells me that it is very hard to sneak anything past his brother, but as I came downstairs I found that hard to believe.
Where could those boys have got to? I looked around the open living room, but there was no sign of either of them. I walked around checking more thoroughly, just in case. I looked in the bathroom, but they weren't in there either (though I dread to imagine what they might be doing if they were). I took a glance at the back door, but they probably wouldn't have gone outside. They were hardly dressed for going out in the cold, and by the looks of it, it was very cold. Besides, even if they had, I wouldn't follow them. I was only in my nightdress after all.
All possibilities downstairs eliminated, I climbed the stairs again. I knew they weren't in my room. I paced up the corridor to where my mother sleeps – I have never been in there. I know they wouldn't be able to get in. I have, in the past, tried to get into her room at night as part of some ploy to get back at her for whatever fiendish attack on me she had made most recently. She must have an impressive array of locks on that door. Two young boys wouldn't be able to get through that.
So that left the observatory. It looked like I would be going outside after all.

I steeled myself and stepped out onto the walkway to the observatory. It was cold, but fortunately not windy. I quietly closed the door behind me and quickly headed into the other building. A calm, if cold, night. It would be some time yet before the sun would rise, and I have always loved the look of the starscape above. Well, on the side away from the city, anyway.
As I snuck into the observatory, I could hear voices. Yes, that was unmistakeably them. They were whispering something, but I couldn't quite make it out.
“What are you two doing?” I demanded as I climbed the stairs. They both jumped and stuttered.
“Well, we...”
“Uh...”
I raised my hand to silence them. “I know what you're looking for, and you won't find them. Just don't bother.” I tried to sound detached, but it still disappointed me that my friends would be looking for the journals that I'd so carefully hidden from them. It felt like a breach of trust.
“Sorry, Rose,” Dave said. “Didn't know it meant that much to you.” I must have not been as good at hiding my disappointment as I'd hoped.
“It was my idea,” confessed John. I didn't quite believe him, but it was good of him to come to his friend's aid like that. “I roped Dave into it. Sorry.”
“Look, it's nothing, okay?” I said, sharply. “Let's... let's just go back to bed.”

We walked back together. None of us said anything until we were almost back at my room.
“Rose?” John whispered, breaking the silence.
“What?” I asked, turning towards him. He then hugged me.
“I'm really sorry, okay? Don't take it too personally. I was only curious.”
“It's okay, John,” I said. “Really.”
He let go and went into the room. Dave then came up and gave me a hug too, to my surprise.
“Just a bit of fun, you know?”
“Well, next time try not to use something so personal for your games.”
“Sorry.”

I climbed back into bed. Jade automatically wrapped her arms around me. I decided to let her. It was only the end of the first day, and already I'd been hugged by each of my friends.
I suppose this wasn't that bad after all.

chapter 7

[resdaMalos]

Great work again, Tenebrais!

I figured I would pollute this thread with my horrid drivel:

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"Welcome back to the Smoky Bar, Mr. Slick, Mr. Boxcars, Mr. Deuce, Mr. Droog."

A trembling hand pushed open the doors. Its patrons looked up for a moment to acknowledge the newcomers. One particularly hardboiled individual tipped his fedora, while those with lesser constitutions ducked into their booths. The bartender prepared four glasses and four stools. Everyone paid the Midnight Crew the respect they were due.

All but one.

A tall, dark woman seated at the bar took a long drag from her cigarette, pointedly ignoring the crew's entrance.

Spades Slick twitched. "Hearts. Clubs. Diamonds. Make yourself scarce."

"Got it, boss," Clubs Deuce replied brightly. The others silently nodded assent, and made their way to a booth on the far end.

Spades Slick made his way towards the bar, already catching the faint odor of cigarettes. Though he hadn't seen her for months, he recognized the woman's trench and hat from the second he entered the bar. After all, he was the one who bought them. "Evenin', Snow."

Snowman turned to acknowledge Spades's presence, and pursed her lips, aiming a puff of smoke straight into his face. "Nice of you to drag your carapace all the way here to see me, Jack." She flicked the ash off her cigarette into the ashtray next to her drink; Spades could see from the number of smoldering filters that she had been here for a while.

"It's 'Spades Slick' now, and you know it," he shot back, as he ordered his usual from the bartender. "And I ain't here for you."

"So you say." Snow picked up the martini glass in front of her, swirling its contents slightly. The corners of her lips turned up a bit, as she turned over the new name in her head. "Spades Slick... Got a nice ring to it."

"Yeah." The drink came sliding down the bar. Spades caught it in an outstretched hand. "I'm here on business," he continued. "Another crew's been planning to move in on our turf. We figured some diplomacy was in order."

"I heard about them," she replied. "You're actually going to meet with English?"

"Nah, just some lackey," Spades answered nonchalantly. "If he doesn't have the stones to meet me in person then there won't be much to say." He took a long drink, feeling the alcohol burn down his throat. "So, how's life as a traitorous bitch treatin' ya?"

"You wound me," Snowman put a hand over her forehead. "If you must know, I've found a nice business opportunity for myself."

"Huh," said Spades, feigning interest. He picked up his glass before coming to a realization. "...No."

Snowman gave him a condescending half-smile, showing off the brooch on her hat. In place of the once prominent joker was the number eight, printed in black on a white circle. "It seems you were here for me after all."

Spades stood up, sending his stool clattering to the floor. The bar grew silent. "You BITCH. You're with the Felt?" He slipped the Ace of Spades from his coat pocket, brandishing the cast iron horse hitcher at her menacingly. "I can't kill you, but you had better come up with a good reason for me not to put you on a fucking stretcher."

"Tut, tut, Mister Slick," a smooth voice replied from behind him. "You don't want to do that." Spades turned around. He was met with an alien-looking fellow, dressed in green, wearing a maroon tri-corner hat emblazoned with the number seven. In his hands was a red crowbar.

"Crowbar," Snowman sighed, "You don't have to do that. I can handle Spades myself."

"Nonsense, Snowman," the green man replied. "The Felt watches their own."

Spades growled, preparing for a rumble. The bar patrons, fearing the worst, remained quiet, simply watching the scene. "Boxcars! Droog! Deuce! Get over here!"

"I'm afraid they can't help you," the man replied. Spades turned towards their booth, only to find two other green men already there. A man in a striped hat numbered "11" was singlehandedly holding down Clubs and Diamonds, while Hearts was facing down another, far larger man, wearing the number 15. Spades didn't understand it - his crew was smarter than this. How could these guys have taken them all by surprise?

"Drop your weapon and I'll call them off," Crowbar said, his voice dripping with contempt.

Spades relented. If they could take down Hearts, who knows what else they could do. He slipped the card back into his War Chest, all the while shooting him a fierce stare.

"That's better," Crowbar continued, and Misters Eleven and Fifteen released their grips on the rest of the Midnight Crew. "Matchsticks, Cans. Let's go." In a mockery of civility, Crowbar doffed his hat. "We'll be seeing you around, Mister Slick." Without another word, the trio left.

The bar slowly began to settle back to normal, as Snowman took another long drag from her cigarette. Spades picked up his bar stool and sat back down, not wanting to stir up a second commotion. "I'll ask you again. What the hell are you thinking?"

"Lord English had something to offer that you never could, Jack." Snowman glared. The pair's eyes met for the first time since they started talking.

"What could he possibly give you that we can't?" Spades scoffed. "I built this town."

"Equal partnership," Snowman stated bluntly. "I ran with you and your three goons for a long time. But I was never more than a lackey to you."

"Ha," Spades laughed again. "So now you're working for English? Seems like a lateral move to me."

"I may be number Eight," Snowman shot back, "but I'm English's right hand. It's not like anyone can tell me otherwise," she added with a smirk.

"Always trying to get your way," he mused. "Typical."

"You should know this by now," she added. "I always get my way." With that, she stood up and made her way to the door.

"Snow." Spades caught her by the arm. "One last thing." Snowman relented, turning around. Spades reached into his coat pocket again, and drew a long, thin box from the deck of cards.

Snowman opened it - inside was a long, black cigarette holder, with white trim. "How thoughtful of you. But since when have I ever needed a weapon? What do you expect me to do with it?"

"You can go and poke your eye out with it, for all I care," Spades spit, before sighing. "I... meant to give that to you a while back. But you were already gone." He stood up. "We're done here."

"Catch you later... Slick." Snowman twirled her new cigarette holder in her right hand.

Spades nodded silently. "Boys. We're outta here." The Midnight Crew left into the night.

Snowman took out another cigarette, lit it, and took one last deep breath. As she slid it into the cigarette holder, she noticed a small etching on the end, small enough that only she could see it. "A spade," she thought aloud. "Heh." She called on the bartender. "Another one of my usual," she said. "Make it a double."

[Crilly]

Drivel? That was awesome!

[orngjce223]

So... The Tale of twinArmageddons

Preliminary notes: 1) I don't use trolling-language here, as that would make it less readable, 2) see my earlier post in this thread if you want the origins of this post

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It was the afternoon of April 12th that truly changed my life forever. April 12, 2009 - the date burnt forever in my memory like the last date in a journal.

My twin sister and I - we were inseperable. I say "were" because she is gone now. If you have never experienced the true joining together that a twin, or a best friend, gives you, and then have had it taken away, you cannot truly understand how much pain this caused me.

If you've ever read "And I Must Scream", you will probably glean a good understanding of my condition. I have no flesh; I am only a spirit, within a framework that I cannot explain but that gives me a modicum of temporal control.

And an Internet connection, for some reason.

----

It was, as I say, April 12, 2009. Natasha and I left the school bus, as usual, on the corner, and walked over to our house - no, our home - and found what we had been looking for, inside the mailbox: two copies of a highly anticipated game called the Sburb Beta.

Natasha had insisted on it, for some reason. Okay, I said, then we can play it together. We had filled out the form on the website - requesting two copies, ground shipping, to this address.

Natalie, my twin sister said, there are four CDs in here. They seemed to come in two sets: two of the packets bore a spirograph inscription, and the other two carried a diagram of a house broken up into seven small pieces. The only other writing on the packets specified "Server" and "Client", respectively, and noted that the packets had been made of 70% post-consumer recycled paper and printed with soy ink.

----

It's strange how the mind dwells on such small details, years later, or was it centuries? There is no time here, after all: the only landmarks I can perceive are orbs, sometimes twelve of them at a time, sometimes only eight. Four of the twelve (or eight) are paired up, like planets with moons or something; size must also be indeterminate here, like time.

----

Time again; it was 4:13 PM when we finally decided to load each game-half, evidently, into each of our computers. I undertook the quick work of transferring two of the four discs onto a USB flash drive so that we wouldn't have to swap discs, and then we installed both.

A terminal window; the game asks for a client to connect to. Looking up IP addresses; finding them, ensuring we were connected to each other, hitting [ENTER]. The loading screen was a glory of colors, spirograph constantly mutating and spinning in the middle of multicolored clouds, accompanied by an amazing, haunting music. Must be GPU-accelerated, I thought. Seems an odd thought to think for something that turned out to be our downfall.

And then we were presented with - what, is that our own house? this really is an immersive simulation - an image of the two of us, sitting facing each other, two computers - and apparently, the ability to influence our environment through the computer screen.

Which is exactly what we did.

We dumped six large machines into our living room, rearranging furniture as we went. They seemed to come in sets depending on who put them out - mine glowed faintly yellow; my sister's a ghost of purple.

----

Cruxtruder, Totem Lathe, Alchemiter - these words have a sinister aura to them for me now. If there -is- a now in this place. Which, of course, there isn't.

----

Walkthroughs. All of which were unfinished, of course, the game had only been out for two days and apparently it progressed in real time. Clicking past our homepages - Yahoo and Google News were both filled with stories of a recent rash of meteor impacts - we looked up the walkthroughs. Apparently, I was supposed to open up the Cruxtruders with a large heavy object. I did as much, sacrificing a fruit bowl to do the deed.

A countdown.

The countdown was the same color as the Cruxtruder, of course, they seemed color-coded, in our respective favorite colors, for some reason. There was a wheel on the side of the cruxtruder; it did nothing but dispense a large cylinder that seemed to be made of translucent plastic, and a bizarre floating, um, thing, which we learned was called the Kernelsprite.

Of course, we did the obvious and dropped each others' cylinders into our Kernelsprites, which seemed to absorb them. This changed their appearance and did nothing else whatsoever.

The countdowns continued ticking - we eventually just decided, "screw it", and opened the door and started running, somewhere, anywhere, because they're probably bombs and might explode.

But that's not what happened. We ran to the old bunkers buried around the edge of town, back during the 1940s and bomb drills. And we dove in - me first, Natasha second. Or she tried to go in second.

But she did not succeed. A huge rock whoosed over the entrance and, a moment later, crashed into the ground. The ensuing explosion - I still cannot bring myself to think about what happened - but somehow, I found myself in what I thought was the afterlife.

But it isn't really the afterlife, because Natasha isn't there. The only conclusion is that Natasha is dead, and somehow I was taken to someplace at the last moment. I don't know where I learned it, but this is called the Medium, and the Inciphisphere, or maybe both - and this is where I will reside, for the rest of eternity.

And I can't even die.

----

I look, now, on the internet - or what was left of it, after the meteors took out most of the hubs of the Internet, at least. There is a walkthrough, 4/13/09, tentacleTherapist. I am told she is to play Sburb. I also know her screenname on Pesterchum. I am also given the ability to scroll backwards and forwards in Earth time.

I know what to do.

I do it for Natasha.

[Qukeza]

Tenebrais: Awesome yet again. I am a huge fan of schadenfreude, so the few moments that provide it are the honey that carries the rest of the lovey-feelgoody medicine down.

resdaMalos: Cool story, bro. Ignoring the usual intent of that statement, there's not much specific to say because the story is solid and consistent. Good job.

orngjce223: I think the first two sections could use a little fleshing out in order to illustrate the connection between the twins, thus leading to a less abrupt matter-of-fact reaction when one dies. Also, the ending would benefit a large amount if START SPOILERS "Do[ing] it for Natasha" SPOILERS END meant something to the reader due to elaboration and less matter-of-fact prose. All that said, don't go too overboard.

HAHA GULLIBLE CHAPTER NO: IT MAKES SENSE IN GERMAN

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Captain: Ah, the sea!

E-Greg: Ah, the cliché! It burns!

Captain: Yeah, yeah; this speech isn't my favorite thing in the world either but it's customary. And yes, we're only on a river. But my first time running this as a captain I got excited and rushed up here, so that's how the tradition started. If I may continue.

E-Greg: Continue away, Captain.

"Thank you." The captain clears his throat.

Ah, the sea! The briny slosh that makes life possible. Were it not for the rivers of life that spring from our sky-piercing peaks, and the great reservoir that sustains more life than man could ever know, man, woman and beast alike could not be here to never know. Truly, the basket of lace that is the world's ocean, the originator of all things, comes just after the gods themselves.

***

By the second day, the crew settles into a usual routine: eight hours sleep, two hours transition, twelve hours work, two more hours transition, don't rinse but repeat, broken into day and night cycles. E-Greg and Diputs take the day shift, and the others the night. E-Greg takes to singing filthy songs with the sailors in order to drown out Diputs' screams from the captain's room. Sonorus spends most of his time thwarting the various schemes the sailors attempt to throw the now-disguiseless kobold overboard.

***

Surely it is the sea that provides us with life, as I speak now of myself and my companions. This river of material more precious than heaven-stone, we use for our livelihood as it merrily carries us along, and it deserves our thanks; therefore, I give to you: three-silver-circles. And for your sister, the sea, when you meet her: two-more.

***

A congregation of intoxicated sailors forms around the center of the lower deck as Sonorus and Gigi finish up work. The majority of the relaxing crewmen stay where they stand, while a young, inebriated crewman moves to intercept the kobold.

Sailor: Well, hello there.

The youth leans against the door leading to the unintuitively-designed vessel's stairs. Gigi considers turning invisible so she won't have to deal with whatever needless bullcrap the overgrown boy's club has come up with now.

Sailor: Wanna bone?

Gigi: Why would I? There's little nutritional value unless I use my teeth to chomp in half and suck out the marrow.

The kobold flashes her sharp teeth for effect, even though the joke seemed obvious on its own. The youth looks visibly disturbed, and the sailors laugh even though they didn't hear most of the dialogue.

Sailor: That was a verb, not a noun.

Gigi: And you expected my answer to be any different? Move yourself, unless you want me to take up your offer. I have hours to sleep and idiots to not talk to.

The youth leaves, and the onlooking crowd's reactions are ordered first for admonishment and second for questions of what actually occurred. Gigi turns invisible to prevent any immediate retribution and moves to her bunk.

Oh, the plight of the wise is to be surrounded by fools.

***

The sea equals freedom. On land, a man is restricted by what he can climb, by what he can jump or avoid, but the sea does not differ over distances, only time. A sturdy boat can take a man everywhere without fear of losing his way, as long as he sees the stars above him. He need not fear starvation as he may reach down beneath him and pluck scaled flesh from the giving waters. But a man must take care to have a destination. He must not lose himself in a sea of meaninglessness.

***

Diputs and E-Greg walk back to their bunks, again tired after a day's hard work of menial, completely not-guard-related tasks. The captain stands to the side of the hallway and stops Diputs as she sidles by. He opens his mouth as if he needs to say something. Pauses. Tries to remember how he phrased it in his head, but people don't think in words but jumps that don't translate into sound well. With Diputs and E-Greg staring at him, the captain attempts to reconstruct the phrases and connections between them, all absolutely bursting with eloquence. Then gives up.

Captain: Wanna bone?

Diputs: As long as it pays.

E-Greg: Aren't you afraid of the universe punishing you for your gross sexual misconduct?

Diputs: That's why they have the cleric spell "Cure Disease" and the monk ability "Stilling Fist".

DM: It's "Stunning Fist". Also, goddamn it, man.

***

Man's future lies across the sea. For humanity to expand and understand more than this finite corner of totality we arise from, our first step is to conquer the sea, to make it a medium which man may travel like an arrow. Then we may spread the light that is humanity in the darkness of our lack, in order to ensure some illumination survives until our inescapable and dismal end. That's all an intelligent species can hope for, really. To understand and map this world through our continued existence, which to secure we must spread beyond these originating constraints which already place us in a crowded cell.

John: I get it! It's a metaphor for the universe!
All: *facepalm*

***

The ship's previous designated wench has unfortunately aged in the exact opposite manner of a bottle of wine. Where once sailors could joke about fighting over the "beauty" of that merely functional outlet of nine years, at the ripe old age of thirty she carries more infections than a cur and less grace than an open sewer. It's more a recognition of her legacy than her use to the sailors that keeps her aboard this ship. After a bit of prodding from some of the sailors, she decides she'll have some fun with the new guy.

Wench: Wanna bone?

E-Greg: No. Absolutely not.

"Oh, come on. You know you'd just dive into this." She turns around and displays the "goods". Or, more accurately, the "bads".

E-Greg: No, I don't, and considering the mere thought of you having sex should be classified as the type of psychological warfare that violates the Geneva Conventions, don't you think you should at least wear something from the waist down?

The wench provides a haughty, condescending harrumph and tries to disapprovingly walk away, though the action could be confused with an attempt to imitate an epileptic rhinoceros. E-Greg later gets drunk with her and the sailors, and he laughs about it.

***

I pity anyone who still believes we need to better ourselves before moving on. We don't have the time to better ourselves. Humanity's place in this world, despite all previous trends, is now rapidly decreasing. The future lies across the sea. Go across the sea. That's all that matters.

It only matters in the slightest what kind of future it will be as long as there is a future.

***

Sonorus stands on the front of the ship, bobbing up and down as the ship prepares to enter the section of the Farnham lying within the Silvin. He tries to see as many of the stars as he can before they disappear. An enormous hulk of a man stands next to him, dressed in all the trappings of a barbarian.

Sonorus: No, I want neither a bone nor to bone.

First Mate: Your abilities of prediction are surely intimidating, but that question did not arise in my mind when I chose to initiate conversation with you.

Sonorus: That eases my spirit, if just a little.

First Mate: My first reason for this discussion is to tell you: once we enter the forest, your duties will change to truly guarding this ship and slaying all that isn't human or kobold that may waylay us.

Sonorus: And human or kobold waylayers?

First Mate: The little runt you may punt over the side of the ship at your own discretion, but if you kill a sailor, expect the favor returned in kind.

Sonorus: The second reason, then.

First Mate: Your drunk mountain claimed you saw the supposed "Triple M" bard: mysterious, murderous and mad. Did you identify any piece of attire or mentally retain a description of him?

Sonorus: Human and male, but those two adjectives only.

First Mate: That is a true shame. I'd like to personally slay any man who claims destruction of intelligent life is a creation.

Sonorus: As would I.

Dave: George pussy-whipped Washington on a popsicle stick, man, tell me we are going to fight something in the near future.

DM: Your bloodlust will be sated.

John: Okay, good. I mean, you're a decent storyteller (not enough exploding helicopters or lesbians for my taste, but I digress) and all but I want to kill something that's more challenging than a skinned puppy.

John: Oh, also, I skinned the puppy and made gloves from the hide. Now to find a vegetarian who will accept gifts from me...

Bro: Did I hear something about lesbians and exploding helicopters?

Dave: Goddamn it, Bro.

DM: That has nothing to do with what we're playing.

Bro: Hell, I don't care. Roll me in.

DM: Let me guess: Lalonde drank you under the table and Mr. Egbert threw a pie in your face.

Bro: Dude, I'm not even twenty-one yet. I don't drink alcohol. Breaking the law is not cool... the pie did manage to make its way to the beauty center, though. How's the Uni treating you?

DM: Same old bullshit, but I hang out with thirteen-year-olds on the weekends, which is always riveting. Here's where I'd say, "How's your university treating you, then?", but, well...

Bro: Six hundred bucks, all my general education classes and free application. I'm telling you, if you ignore the stupid people, community ain't so bad.

DM: Maybe after you graduate from Baby's First College you can get Dave to introduce you to "Fun with Numbers", like how, for example, a level two dwarf cannot have a Charisma score of 21, even if he is somehow dual-classed bard/bard.

Bro: Go on with the adventure, I'll join in when I see a good spot.

DM: I think I'll add in the lesbians and exploding helicopters myself if I choose to do so, thank you very much. You're on the ship. Everyone else ready?

[Nopad]

Yay Bro. Why is this an invalid form?

[Layra]

Tenebrais: I really like your Dave. He's actually cool, instead of just trying to be. Although what was he doing with John...?

resdaMalos: Poor Slick. Poor sweet Slick.

orngjce223: That actually would explain a lot. But as Qukeza said, it goes a bit too fast to create a connection to the twins.

Qukeza: As always, Bro is slightly creepy. And Dave is good at cussing.

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Go Team ___

Insufferable Broad.
Insufferable.
Broad.
Someone had a terrible sense of humor.
"Dave, why are we stuck with this awful team name again?"
"Because someone wanted to mash up our names but decided that Flighty Prick had unfortunate connotations."
"Right. I remember now."
"You know, we could just put together our actual names, something like 'Rose Strider'..."
Awkward pause. Uncomfortable blushing. Eyes unable to meet.
"I...I think that Insufferable Broad is a great name."
"Yeah. Best name ever."

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Squiddles

"Uh, John, Jade?" Rose glanced over at Dave. Although she couldn't see through his sunglasses, she could tell that he was trying not to look at her, his cheeks dusted with pink.
"Yes, Dave?" asked Jade.
"We, uh..." Dave trailed off, the pink deepening. He shifted slightly closer to Rose and hissed, "God damnit, I feel like such a pansy. Like the business end of a wet-"
"Just get on with it." Rose whispered back, rolling her eyes. "You don't have to play up your insecurities for my sake."
Dave straightened and cleared his throat. "Rose and I..." He looked at her for a moment before turning back to the others.
John's eyes went wide and the blood drained from his face. He must have figured it out.
"What is it, Dave?" asked Jade.
"We're..." Dave's hand began twitching wildly, so Rose grabbed it, interlacing her fingers with his.
Jade noticed immediately. "Tangle buddies!"
Dave froze. "What."
Rose raised an eyebrow, then looked down at their joined hands. She sighed. "Yes, Jade. We're tangle buddies."
"Yay!" exclaimed Jade, clapping wildly. "Did you see, John? Dave and Rose are tangle buddies!"
"Tangle...buddies?" asked Dave. "How high do you even have to-"
"Strider," Rose forced out through clenched teeth, "Either we call it 'tangle buddies' or you can try to explain to Jade that we've been sleeping together since we turned 18."
"Oh," Jade interrupted, "I already knew that."
Dave's jaw and sunglasses dropped. Rose took the opportunity to turn bright red.
"But now you're tangle buddies, which is even better!"
John collapsed into a ball, whimpering.

I'm on a bit of a shipping spree at the moment.

[Quixotic]

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Go Team ___

Insufferable Broad.
Insufferable.
Broad.
Someone had a terrible sense of humor.
"Dave, why are we stuck with this awful team name again?"
"Because someone wanted to mash up our names but decided that Flighty Prick had unfortunate connotations."
"Right. I remember now."
"You know, we could just put together our actual names, something like 'Rose Strider'..."
Awkward pause. Uncomfortable blushing. Eyes unable to meet.
"I...I think that Insufferable Broad is a great name."
"Yeah. Best name ever."

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Squiddles

"Uh, John, Jade?" Rose glanced over at Dave. Although she couldn't see through his sunglasses, she could tell that he was trying not to look at her, his cheeks dusted with pink.
"Yes, Dave?" asked Jade.
"We, uh..." Dave trailed off, the pink deepening. He shifted slightly closer to Rose and hissed, "God damnit, I feel like such a pansy. Like the business end of a wet-"
"Just get on with it." Rose whispered back, rolling her eyes. "You don't have to play up your insecurities for my sake."
Dave straightened and cleared his throat. "Rose and I..." He looked at her for a moment before turning back to the others.
John's eyes went wide and the blood drained from his face. He must have figured it out.
"What is it, Dave?" asked Jade.
"We're..." Dave's hand began twitching wildly, so Rose grabbed it, interlacing her fingers with his.
Jade noticed immediately. "Tangle buddies!"
Dave froze. "What."
Rose raised an eyebrow, then looked down at their joined hands. She sighed. "Yes, Jade. We're tangle buddies."
"Yay!" exclaimed Jade, clapping wildly. "Did you see, John? Dave and Rose are tangle buddies!"
"Tangle...buddies?" asked Dave. "How high do you even have to-"
"Strider," Rose forced out through clenched teeth, "Either we call it 'tangle buddies' or you can try to explain to Jade that we've been sleeping together since we turned 18."
"Oh," Jade interrupted, "I already knew that."
Dave's jaw and sunglasses dropped. Rose took the opportunity to turn bright red.
"But now you're tangle buddies, which is even better!"
John collapsed into a ball, whimpering.

I'm on a bit of a shipping spree at the moment.

Oh God, I think I love you. Rose/Dave is my favourite pairing, and you do it so awesomely. Both of those were very cute. And in the second one...oh, Jade.

'Tangle buddies' is the best euphemism ever.

[resdaMalos]

resdaMalos: Poor Slick. Poor sweet Slick.

Glad you enjoyed it.

... John's eyes went wide and the blood drained from his face. He must have figured it out.

What is being implied here? I think it's gone over my head.

Great little short stories BTW... I now officially ship Dave/Rose.

[Tenebrais]

Tenebrais: I really like your Dave. He's actually cool, instead of just trying to be. Although what was he doing with John...?

They were trying to find the writing journals Rose had so carefully hidden.

Also having the two young boys wandering off together in the night means that I've implied shipping every pairing now.

[Quixotic]

Also having the two young boys wandering off together in the night means that I've implied shipping every pairing now.

I'd noticed that! I'd wondered if it was intentional.

[Layra]

I knew, intellectually, that they were looking for the journals, but after too much time spent lurking the RomArt thread, well, let's say that I read the implications more than the story itself.

[Tenebrais]

Haha. Well, all shipping implications are intentional.


Also, I just discovered my first chapter has 413 words. Wow.

[Blueberry]

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Go Team ___

Insufferable Broad.
Insufferable.
Broad.
Someone had a terrible sense of humor.
"Dave, why are we stuck with this awful team name again?"
"Because someone wanted to mash up our names but decided that Flighty Prick had unfortunate connotations."
"Right. I remember now."
"You know, we could just put together our actual names, something like 'Rose Strider'..."
Awkward pause. Uncomfortable blushing. Eyes unable to meet.
"I...I think that Insufferable Broad is a great name."
"Yeah. Best name ever."

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Squiddles

"Uh, John, Jade?" Rose glanced over at Dave. Although she couldn't see through his sunglasses, she could tell that he was trying not to look at her, his cheeks dusted with pink.
"Yes, Dave?" asked Jade.
"We, uh..." Dave trailed off, the pink deepening. He shifted slightly closer to Rose and hissed, "God damnit, I feel like such a pansy. Like the business end of a wet-"
"Just get on with it." Rose whispered back, rolling her eyes. "You don't have to play up your insecurities for my sake."
Dave straightened and cleared his throat. "Rose and I..." He looked at her for a moment before turning back to the others.
John's eyes went wide and the blood drained from his face. He must have figured it out.
"What is it, Dave?" asked Jade.
"We're..." Dave's hand began twitching wildly, so Rose grabbed it, interlacing her fingers with his.
Jade noticed immediately. "Tangle buddies!"
Dave froze. "What."
Rose raised an eyebrow, then looked down at their joined hands. She sighed. "Yes, Jade. We're tangle buddies."
"Yay!" exclaimed Jade, clapping wildly. "Did you see, John? Dave and Rose are tangle buddies!"
"Tangle...buddies?" asked Dave. "How high do you even have to-"
"Strider," Rose forced out through clenched teeth, "Either we call it 'tangle buddies' or you can try to explain to Jade that we've been sleeping together since we turned 18."
"Oh," Jade interrupted, "I already knew that."
Dave's jaw and sunglasses dropped. Rose took the opportunity to turn bright red.
"But now you're tangle buddies, which is even better!"
John collapsed into a ball, whimpering.

I'm on a bit of a shipping spree at the moment.

I LAUGHED

SO HARD

mostly at the Squiddles one

tangle buddies

[orngjce223]

Yeah, I basically puked the whole story up in half an hour. It could definitely do with some editing. Oh well.

[zil]

This is the first time I've written fiction since high school creative writing assignments, I hope it's okay! I call it "Drawing Dead Liner Notes". I wanted to make it all gritty but then it started being funny so the end result is more Carl Hiaasen than Dashiell Hammett.

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When I think back on my time working with the dangerous geniuses of Midnight Crew, I'm reminded of the late, gay, great Oscar Wilde: "The best of times are often found hiding in the worst of places." I am almost certain Oscar Wilde said that. But when I found myself stumbling one night (as on so many others) through the rusty, squeaky swinging double-doors of Flush's speakeasy, undoubtedly one of the worst places I've ever admitted (under duress, no less) to having frequented, the best of times were far from my mind. To say I was in a slump would be an insult to slumps. As a manager, I was in the dumps, my career as good as finished; my only remaining client, a hard-boiled hip-hop trio by the name of Pryvit Dixxx, had just fired me. I was at Flush's to forget, to get drunk, so drunk I could down a glass of formaldehyde and belch out a well-preserved request for a second round.

But inebriation, however attractive the option might have seemed, wasn't in the cards that night. The darkness of Flush's enveloped me like an envelope, and while I couldn't see a thing, two other senses painted a picture worthy of a particularly impious Old Master. The smell hit me like a crowbar to the groin: an unprecedented conglomeration of every bodily fluid and illicit substance known to man. But all this seemed secondary to what assaulted my ears. A wailing, beautiful as the cries of a newborn child and about as musical, erupted from the saxophone of an impeccably-dressed gentleman on an improvised raised stage consisting of several rickety tables pushed together. Next to him, a stout, almost comical man intoned an incongruously eerie and alluring counterpoint on an oboe. On the floor, providing a tonal context for these shenanigans, were a calm, cool pianist playing with an air of competence and professionalism and an intimidatingly-built bassist thumping a mean bottom end. Nearly drowning out the quartet, however, was the stomping, hooting, and hollering of a massive firecode-violating crowd, many couples performing dance moves so intense they could only end in pregnancy. I joined in the festivities, forgetting my problems by embracing my vices, and at the end of the night I nonchalantly slipped a business card into the only overflowing tip jar I have ever seen.

I got the call from Spades Slick the next day, not to request my services as a manager, but to chastise me for being a "cheap piece of shit" with regards to my donation the previous night. I could barely hold a conversation through the hangover, but apparently neither could he, and before I knew it I had four illegible scrawls on a contract that was unfair, but not unfair enough for Slick or the Midnight Crew to pin any resultant coercion squarely on the label or myself.

The recording went off without a hitch. With Boxcars performing while standing in his Wrathtub and Droog in his Brawlsoleum, we were even able to create an approximation of the decadent live atmosphere of Flush's. Sitting in the control room, I felt like a witness to miracles every day. The Crew were initially reluctant to include electronic beats in the mix, but after inadvertently using the words "competition" and "survival" in an explanation of musical trendsetting, I could hardly keep them away from the drum machine.

I should have known it had been too easy; when I arrived at the studio one morning and found it in flames, my surprise lasted only a fraction of a second. I got the story from Droog: the Crew and a few dozen close friends decided to host a little shindig. At the height of the bacchanal, all four Crew members pooled their decks and played a game of 208 Pickup. The cards combusted from sheer friction and set everything aflame. The only casualty? The Midnight Crew master tapes.

I told Droog I'd take care of it. Hiring Itchy and Sawbuck cost most of my advance and all my scruples, but neither had ever mattered less. Each singed yet intact tape they brought back felt like a life saved from a meteor impact. Nineteen tapes the sons of bitches managed to recover, all but one. All but "Fill 'Em With Midnight", the clear standout of the album and the song that changed everything when I staggered into Flush's seemingly a lifetime ago. Still, things had gone better than I'd expected; I only hoped the Crew wouldn't smell a rat.

They may not have smelled a rat, but the smell of cue-chalk that hung about the surviving tapes was enough of a giveaway. Slick called a band meeting away from my presence, which made me paranoid as all hell though nothing has come of it, at least not yet. Later, Deuce brought me an indecipherable scribble that he insisted be used as an album cover. I inquired as to what it depicted, to which he replied, "Drawing of you, dead." Thus was Midnight Crew's debut christened, although the scribble was eventually relegated to a small corner of the inner sleeve.

That's where my story ends, at least until the next record. So enjoy these sordid musical excursions. Eventually the dust will settle. Eventually the drugs will wear off. When all that is said and done, we'll once again have to drag ourselves back into the real world, back into a world of restraint and discretion and good old god-damned sobriety. Back into the light, in other words. But that's not until morning, friends. For the dark, the night, there will always be Midnight Crew: kings, nay, gods of dark jazz for now and for all time.

--Jokers Wild, Midnight Crew manager and producer of Drawing Dead

[Tenebrais]

Chapter whatever-the-fuck-this-is! Seven. I don't know.

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I woke up at ten o' clock – my usual time when I have no obligations of a morning. John and Jade had already woken up and left the room. Dave was still fast asleep. I didn't want to wake him, so I took my clothes and headed out to the bathroom to prepare for the day.
As I came out onto the landing, I noticed John and Jade chatting. It looked like they had had breakfast recently – there were empty bowls on the table. I didn't know we even had cereal in the house.
“Morning, Rose!” called out John when he noticed me.
“Morning,” I called back wearily. I was still groggy from sleep.
“Not dressed yet?”
“Dave's in there. He's still asleep, but just imagine if he woke up in the middle of it. I'll use the bathroom.”
John nodded, then fell silent. If I could hazard a guess, I would probably have a fairly good idea of what was going through his mind. How rude of him.

A short while later, I emerged from the bathroom, dressed, washed and having performed all the other rituals that one does in the morning.
“So what time did you two get up?” I asked.
“About an hour ago,” John replied. “Jade woke me.”
“Well, I was lonely and I couldn't find Bec,” she explained.
Come to think of it, Mom wasn't around either. Nor any of the adults, for that matter. I wondered what they were up to, but it was too early to worry about it. I'm never ready to think until I've had a croissant and coffee, so I went about making that happen.

I came back with my breakfast to find John asleep on the table.
“Now there's a strange sight,” I commented as I prepared to eat.
“He must be tired,” Jade said. An astute observation. “He came from a long way away after all.”
I nodded, and swallowed a mouth full of croissant. “He was up late last night too. He can't have gotten much sleep.”
“You mean with the game?”
“Later. Dave must have woken him up. They went looking for something.”
Silence for a moment. “Oh! You mean your storybooks?”
“They're writing journals, not storybooks. But yes.”
“Oh, I saw those. You're a good writer!”
I felt as though she had slapped me in the face. “What?”
“The books under that loose floorboard the bed is sitting on, right?”
“Okay, wait. How did you get under there without waking me up?”
“It was the middle of the night. You weren't in bed. You must have gone to the toilet or something.”
Exasperated, I fell forwards and hit my head on the table, probably coating my forehead in flakes of pastry.
“By the way,” Jade said, “what does ‘tumescent' mean? You used that word a lot.”
I tried to will myself somewhere else. Anywhere else. Somewhere like the deepest, foulest prison guarded by hideous betentacled beasts beyond human ken. Fortunately, a distraction was provided in the form of Dave charging into the room screaming and brandishing half a sword. He got around the landing and halfway down the stairs before running out of momentum and realising nobody was going to attack him. He didn't let his guard down until he had looked around the room carefully enough to ensure there were no attackers in hiding.

“What was that?” Jade asked.
“Huh?” Slightly dazed, Dave finally acknowledged our presence. “Oh, it's this thing me and Bro do. He gets up before me and charges me when I get out of bed.”
“Is that how your sword got broken?” I asked.
“Yeah. Dude owes me a new one. Don't let me forget to not let him forget that.”
“That's not a katana,” John said. Dave must have woken him. “That's a ninjato.”
“What's the difference?” Dave asked
“It's shorter and straighter.”
“Well, he owes me a katana.”
The issue resolved, Dave came and sat with us at the table. He stared at me for a second, then brushed the crumbs off my forehead.
“So, what's for breakfast?” he asked.
“Whatever you can make yourself,” I replied, curtly.
Grumbling a little, he got back up. He headed over to the kitchen and started rifling through the cupboards. He came across a particularly colourful box and stared at me again.
“Honey-coated magma rocks? You like this stuff?”
“I don't know,” I replied. “What is it?”
“It's kids' cereal. You have some.”
“It's delicious!” Jade chirped up.
“To each their own,” Dave said. “Why do you have this in the house if you don't even know what it is?”
“I didn't put it there,” I replied. “My mother is probably planning something with it.” I don't know how children's cereal can be put to use against me, but I wouldn't put anything past her.

Dave ultimately settled for toast, topped with jam. We always use jam instead of jelly. He seemed a little put out by that fact, as though I did not appreciate the irony of unusual uses for jelly. At the same time he seemed unsure whether it was that, or that I appreciated the irony and went one step further by not having any. For a boy who never shows his eyes, Dave's face tells quite a tale.
Nothing else of much note occurred over the course of the morning. As noon approached, we had started to worry about where the adults were. Well, I worried, as this certainly meant that my mother was planning some insidious scheme to get at me, and was probably already in the process of implementing it. The others all seemed to trust their guardians too much for that.

John wandered into the room bearing a note. “Guys!” he called. “I think I know where the others are.”
“What does it say?” asked Jade.
John read out the note. “Dear all. We've run off! I had a hut set up in the forest for us to camp out in and relax while you children have fun doing whatever it is fourteen-year-olds do with their time. The fridge is well stocked so I know you can keep yourselves well fed over the next couple of days. Don't worry about us, and have fun! John, your father says he is very proud of you. Dave, your brother says John's father is a dork. Bec says arf. Signed, Mom.”
We spent a moment taking it all in. “Where did you find that?” I asked.
“It was stuck to your mom's door,” John replied.
I pondered that for another moment, then went to fetch my coat. “Come on,” I said. “Let's go.”
“Go where?” asked Jade.
“Isn't it obvious? We're going to crash their party.”

Chapter 8

[Årmå]

This is the first time I've written fiction since high school creative writing assignments, I hope it's okay! I call it "Drawing Dead Liner Notes". I wanted to make it all gritty but then it started being funny so the end result is more Carl Hiaasen than Dashiell Hammett.

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When I think back on my time working with the dangerous geniuses of Midnight Crew, I'm reminded of the late, gay, great Oscar Wilde: "The best of times are often found hiding in the worst of places." I am almost certain Oscar Wilde said that. But when I found myself stumbling one night (as on so many others) through the rusty, squeaky swinging double-doors of Flush's speakeasy, undoubtedly one of the worst places I've ever admitted (under duress, no less) to having frequented, the best of times were far from my mind. To say I was in a slump would be an insult to slumps. As a manager, I was in the dumps, my career as good as finished; my only remaining client, a hard-boiled hip-hop trio by the name of Pryvit Dixxx, had just fired me. I was at Flush's to forget, to get drunk, so drunk I could down a glass of formaldehyde and belch out a well-preserved request for a second round.

But inebriation, however attractive the option might have seemed, wasn't in the cards that night. The darkness of Flush's enveloped me like an envelope, and while I couldn't see a thing, two other senses painted a picture worthy of a particularly impious Old Master. The smell hit me like a crowbar to the groin: an unprecedented conglomeration of every bodily fluid and illicit substance known to man. But all this seemed secondary to what assaulted my ears. A wailing, beautiful as the cries of a newborn child and about as musical, erupted from the saxophone of an impeccably-dressed gentleman on an improvised raised stage consisting of several rickety tables pushed together. Next to him, a stout, almost comical man intoned an incongruously eerie and alluring counterpoint on an oboe. On the floor, providing a tonal context for these shenanigans, were a calm, cool pianist playing with an air of competence and professionalism and an intimidatingly-built bassist thumping a mean bottom end. Nearly drowning out the quartet, however, was the stomping, hooting, and hollering of a massive firecode-violating crowd, many couples performing dance moves so intense they could only end in pregnancy. I joined in the festivities, forgetting my problems by embracing my vices, and at the end of the night I nonchalantly slipped a business card into the only overflowing tip jar I have ever seen.

I got the call from Spades Slick the next day, not to request my services as a manager, but to chastise me for being a "cheap piece of shit" with regards to my donation the previous night. I could barely hold a conversation through the hangover, but apparently neither could he, and before I knew it I had four illegible scrawls on a contract that was unfair, but not unfair enough for Slick or the Midnight Crew to pin any resultant coercion squarely on the label or myself.

The recording went off without a hitch. With Boxcars performing while standing in his Wrathtub and Droog in his Brawlsoleum, we were even able to create an approximation of the decadent live atmosphere of Flush's. Sitting in the control room, I felt like a witness to miracles every day. The Crew were initially reluctant to include electronic beats in the mix, but after inadvertently using the words "competition" and "survival" in an explanation of musical trendsetting, I could hardly keep them away from the drum machine.

I should have known it had been too easy; when I arrived at the studio one morning and found it in flames, my surprise lasted only a fraction of a second. I got the story from Droog: the Crew and a few dozen close friends decided to host a little shindig. At the height of the bacchanal, all four Crew members pooled their decks and played a game of 208 Pickup. The cards combusted from sheer friction and set everything aflame. The only casualty? The Midnight Crew master tapes.

I told Droog I'd take care of it. Hiring Itchy and Sawbuck cost most of my advance and all my scruples, but neither had ever mattered less. Each singed yet intact tape they brought back felt like a life saved from a meteor impact. Nineteen tapes the sons of bitches managed to recover, all but one. All but "Fill 'Em With Midnight", the clear standout of the album and the song that changed everything when I staggered into Flush's seemingly a lifetime ago. Still, things had gone better than I'd expected; I only hoped the Crew wouldn't smell a rat.

They may not have smelled a rat, but the smell of cue-chalk that hung about the surviving tapes was enough of a giveaway. Slick called a band meeting away from my presence, which made me paranoid as all hell though nothing has come of it, at least not yet. Later, Deuce brought me an indecipherable scribble that he insisted be used as an album cover. I inquired as to what it depicted, to which he replied, "Drawing of you, dead." Thus was Midnight Crew's debut christened, although the scribble was eventually relegated to a small corner of the inner sleeve.

That's where my story ends, at least until the next record. So enjoy these sordid musical excursions. Eventually the dust will settle. Eventually the drugs will wear off. When all that is said and done, we'll once again have to drag ourselves back into the real world, back into a world of restraint and discretion and good old god-damned sobriety. Back into the light, in other words. But that's not until morning, friends. For the dark, the night, there will always be Midnight Crew: kings, nay, gods of dark jazz for now and for all time.

--Jokers Wild, Midnight Crew manager and producer of Drawing Dead

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