Hard Light Productions Forums
Off-Topic Discussion => General Discussion => Topic started by: Eishtmo on March 02, 2002, 08:07:28 pm
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For some time (nearly two years now), I've been writing a series of stories known as So There I Was. . . They're intresting, but in the end pointless, tales of my strange life. Anyways, I'm now getting into what could be called the "second season" of the stories, known as So There I Was. . . Road Trip to be posted in Warpstorm.com's City of Light Station (http://www.warpstorm.com/forum/forumdisplay.php?forumid=36). With this in mind, I've decided to go ahead and post the original series here, in an effort to attract new readers. So, once a day until I finish, I'll be posting each of the stories, and once finished, the first of the So There I Was. . . Road Trip will go up for all of you to read. Comments are not only accepted, but demanded. Read or not, I don't care. These stories never had a point anyways:
So There I Was. . .
The Party
So there I was, a sock in my mouth lying in a pool of vomit, probably my own. I was in jail, again. Don’t feel sorry for me, I’ve been in jail before from being lude to police officers, to suspicion of murder (they’ve never proven it). In fact, the New Harrington city jail was virtually my second home. Of course, I never remembered it being as crowded as it was that day.
In the small confines with its pale blue walls and stench of unflushed toilet, nearly thirty people had been squeezed into a small cell. Which made getting to a sink to wash the dried vomit off my face a delicate task. “I’m gonna blow!” You’d be amazed what people will do just to prevent others from blowing chunks all over them. A quick wash, of both my face and sock, reveled that my standard five day stubble was reaching the seven day mark, evidence that I’d been out a while now. I shoved the wet sock into my pocket and began looking for a familiar face. I needed to know what had happened to get me in jail along with most of my neighbors.
That’s when I saw Jerry, my good, but somewhat spacey, friend. Friend, of course, means pot smoking buddy, and one of my best customers. I plopped down on the bench next to him, after shoving another sleeping person out of the way.
“How’s it going Jerry?”
“Huh?” Jerry half woke up to greet me. “Oh, hey Quinn, you got any for me?”
“We’re in jail, of course not.”
“We’re in jail?” Sometimes I wonder about Jerry. “That sucks man. It’s worth it though.”
“Oh?”
Jerry finally looked at me with open eyes. “The party man, being in jail over that party is worth it. You sure you don’t have anything.”
“I’ve got an old sock stained with spit, beer and vomit.”
“Can’t smoke that.”
“What happened at the party?”
“What party?”
“The party we’re in jail for.” Lesson to be learned here kids, pot rots your brain. But only if you had one to start with, so Jerry wasn’t effected at all.
“Oh, that party. It was a hell of a party. Let me tell you about it. . .”
I’ll stop quoting him now, as the next couple of hours were spent trying to get information out of him. Every now and then, he would fall asleep, ask for some, or just loose his place completely, taking about ten minutes to get back on track. So I’ll paraphrase the whole mess for you.
Apparently, two nights earlier, I, along with a bunch of my friends, went to the largest party in known history. Nearly half of New Harrington was there, a whopping five thousand people, all crammed into the neighborhood around a single house in the suburbs. The details are fuzzy on what was generally going on, but there was lots of alcohol, drugs, rock n’ roll and general zaniness to make New Years in New York look like a day at the DMV. The music was so loud, airports were said to call to ask us to keep the noise down. The flashes were so many, satellites were blinded by asses and tits, giving many a cold and lonely Russian photo annalists a reason to live another day.
And of course, there were discussions. Ranging from politics, to religion, to sex, to philosophy, to quantum physics (drunk people talking about physics is something you need to see to believe). Most were small, only two or three people, all either drunk or high, and none taking the whole mess too seriously. Except one. At some point, a small group began discussion who the greatest inventor of all time was. Now this is a rather silly argument, but being drunk gave it some credence. Meaning it led to sex.
Initially, according to Jerry and others, two sides began forming within the entire party. The first claimed that Malcolm Potts, one of the many inventors of the condom, was the greatest. The other held Marie Stopes, one of the inventors of the diaphragm, was the best. Don’t think that this was a male/female split either, half of each were on each side. Slowly, the argument began to spread throughout the party, escaping the walls of the house where it started, and seeping into the streets. The two sides now began to separate themselves from each other, and playing a game of “tastes great, less filling.” I’ll leave you to your own jokes there folks.
Eventually, a third group formed claimed that the inventor of the saline breast implant, Henry Jenny (I did research to make sure the name was right. Not much, but I did some nonetheless). Of course, three is always a crowd, and when there are three groups in a crowd, you know there’s going to be trouble. The argument escalated, and various weapons, mostly clubs and broken beer bottles, were gathered. And then, like a crack of thunder (it may have actually been started by a crack of thunder, details are shaky), a riot broke out.
This is nothing new in New Harrington. Of course, the scale is new, but the event isn’t. Hell, I’ve taken part in so many riots, I get calls from anarchists asking for tips, which I give them, for a price. Hey, I may lead a life of chaos, but I’ve got to eat once in a while. So out comes the New Harrington Riot Squad, which were almost immediatly run off by a bunch of drunk idiots, swinging clubs, claiming the condom is the greatest invention of all time (I don’t totally disagree, but that’s not the point). And so, with is best weapon crying in a corner for mommy, Mayor Julian Harrington, the great, great, great, grandson of the founder of Harrington, which was eaten by the flood of ‘93 (dynamite and levees do not mix), called the governor and requested the National Guard be sent in.
Unfortunately, a good chunk of the party goers were also with the National Guard. As soon as the call went out, their beepers went off. The Guard members now gathered together, and after a brief discussion, decided that the guy-who-invented-the-beeping-noise-construction-vehicles-make-when-they-back-up was the greatest inventor of all time, and decided to get rid of these traitorist factions. So now four sides were pounding away on one another, each holding that the different person was the greatest inventor of all time. If they hadn’t been drunk, nothing would have happened, but then, there wouldn’t be a story here either.
After about an hour, the real National Guard arrived, and started busting heads. Arrests were in the thousands, and gunshots were fired, to no real effect. Eventually, the riot calmed, and those who had lead it were thrown in jail. The rest were herded into the Harrington High gym, to await processing. Of course, that’s not why I was in jail.
“So,” I asked. “Why am I here? I don’t give a damn about this debate.”
“Uh, what were we talking about again?”
“Jerry, I’ll cut off your supply if you don’t get your act together.”
Jerry’s eyes went the widest I’ve ever seen them. “You wouldn’t!”
“In a heart beat.”
“Well, uh, let’s see. As the crowd started to calm down, the guy in charge of the National Guard and the Mayor tried to reassure those who had not been involved that everything was under control. That’s when you went up there and gave both of them wedgies. It was great man!”
So there you have it. I was in jail because I gave the Mayor a wedgie. That asshole has always had it in for me, so I guess it makes sense. Luckily, I know the cops here, so I should be out in a couple of hours, it is my second home and all. But I have to agree with Jerry, it was worth it. I just wish I could remember the Mayor’s face.
And whose sock this is.
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:wtf::wtf::wtf:
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:lol: :lol: :lol: :lol: :lol:
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I give it a 6 on a scale that stretches off into infinity in both directions.
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I just read it again cuz I kinda missed it at some points...
so now... :lol::lol::lol::lol:
is this true? I know, stupid question
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:eek2:
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I'm so dissapointed I missed that party. ;)
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:lol: :lol: :lol: :lol: :lol:
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:lol::lol::lol::lol::lol::lol:
So there's more of these? :D
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Originally posted by Kamikaze
So there's more of these? :D
Oh yeah!
Anyways, don't fret too much, there have been quite a few people fooled into believeing it was real. In truth, Jerry's real name is Dennis. On to the next one:
There was two more episodes between the Party and this episode, but they were lost in a server crash. I've been meaning to rewrite them, and am slowly getting around to it. In any case, the house around which the party was centered was mine, and was destroyed. Which brings us to my favorite piece, Home for the Holidays. Enjoy:
So There I Was. . .
Home for the Holidays
So there I was, ankle deep in snow, watching as my sister’s kids bawled their eyes out. Every Christmas, for reasons I still can’t fathom (okay, it’s for the presents), I go home to spend a ‘delightful’ couple of days with those members of my family crazy enough to come together. This year, however, I was hoping to spend a tad more than a couple of days, say, a couple of months. Ever since the party/riot of the century (the 21st century officially began Jan 1, 2001, but it still got the title regardless of what century you say it was in) had destroyed my home, I’ve been living in a tent in my back yard, while lazy, overpaid, underskilled union construction workers rebuild my house. In any case, the tent, while nice, was getting a bit cold, and spending the coldest months of winter in it was not my idea of fun. So, staying in my parents house, despite the horrid implications, was sounding better with every weather report.
So, I took the bus home, using the proceeds of my latest blood and semen sale to pay my way. When I arrived, I found Grandpa, on my dad’s side, busy with a load of metal and what looked like gun shells in the front yard, and my nieces and nephew crying in the doorway. I immediately sprang into action (I do that sometimes, despite myself). Every Christmas, for as long as I can remember, Grandpa has threatened to shoot Santa dead for trespassing, same with the Easter bunny and President Washington (kudos to those who get that joke). Needless to say, he’s out of his mind, and not in a good way (yes, there are good ways to be out of your mind, it’s loads of fun, you should try it sometime). As such, most of us kids learned early on to ignore the ravings of the old man. Of course, setting up what looked like radar controlled anti-aircraft artillery in the front yard is enough to dishearten any little kid, especially my five, seven, and nine year old nieces and nephew. I quickly explained to the kids that Grandpa didn’t have a chance in heck of shooting Santa down. First of all, Santa probably uses advanced stealth technology and secondly, Grandpa couldn’t hit the broad side of a jolly old elf if he was six inches (15 cm) away.
Grandpa, somehow, overheard this and said “Damned if you’re right. I need flak to take down that good for nothin trespasser!”
The kids began bawling again. I quickly told them that all the military surplus stores were closed this time of night and Grandpa would never get flak shells. Besides, flak is so inaccurate, he’d probably take down a 747 before he even got near Santa. The children instantly perked up, gave me a hug, then took off with the gifts I gave them. No, I didn’t get them new gifts, it was the junk I got last year that I wrapped and gave to them. Don’t get me wrong, I love them, but when you’re virtually broke with your stuff being held for ransom by nazi storage depot owners, you have to make sacrifices. This is one of them.
Inside didn’t look any different then the last time I was there, last Christmas. The tree looked like it hadn’t been moved since then, and knowing my dad’s back, it probably hasn’t (don’t worry, its artificial). The cute little angel with that strange pointy tree topper sticking up her butt still sat on top of the tree, blinking the steady beat of “Silent Night” thanks to a strange string of lights that beeps Christmas music (unless you push Santa’s belly, which reduces the volume to nothing but blinking lights, as it was now). Ornaments I made when I was in grade school still hung from its branches along with the ones my sister’s kids made. God, do my parents love being grandparents. The kids had already put their gifts under the tree for Christmas morning (tradition) and were clambering around me for more. I opened my bag and they grabbed at the presents, most of which weren’t theirs, and moved them to under the tree with great excitement. Sometimes I love being an uncle.
Speaking of kids, my sister and her husband were busy enjoying a roaring fire, until the youngest kid changed the channel to see what else was on. Jake, my sisters husband, began yell as if the kid had just started World War III. Of course, she started crying and ran over to my sister who promptly elbowed Jake for being a jerk. Jake is okay, I guess, if you like loud mouth, greedy, selfish, self centered, brain dead, jackasses. Have I mentioned that I don’t like him? It’s a wonder that my sister stays married to him. I know she’s smarter than that, should couldn’t really love him, could she?
That’s about when my mom rolls up (literally), yells at Jake for taking things to seriously, then gives me a hug. There’s nothing on Earth like a hug from your mom, nothing. In my case, of course, it means a pain in my back as I have to lean over to hug my mom when she’s in here wheelchair. Oh well, I can stand a little pain. She then led me into the kitchen where my father and his mother were busy preparing the Christmas eve meal. Normally, we’d simply order pizza, but with Grandma around, we have massive vegetable trays that last well into the next day. Meanwhile, two turkeys sat in the fridge waiting for tomorrows pseudo cook-off between mother and son. Two meals isn’t a bad thing though, because even if I can’t stay, I’ll have plenty of leftovers.
Back in the living room, Jake, that cheap bastard, put a bootleg copy of that Grinch movie in. The absolute worst thing about Jake is not that he’s cheap, but that he can afford to not be cheap. God, do I hate that slime. As the children settled down and strained to hear the film, I managed, finally, to get my other Grandma’s attention. She was relaxing in my dad’s chair (a no-no when I was growing up, then we got a dog and that theory went out the window) with a beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other, and her hearing aid on the table next to her. Explains why she didn’t notice my arrival earlier. She greeted me as normal then demanded to know where her worthless son was. Then she blew smoke in my face and called me a worthless loser again.
“Well,” I said. “At least I’m not Jake.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Jake yelled.
Grandma laughed, she knew a joke when she didn’t hear it, and this had to have been a dosy because it got Jake off his ass. He started toward me, only to have my sister stop him mid step and drag him back down onto the couch. That’s about when Tommy, the previously mentioned worthless son, and his family arrived. I like Tommy, and he hated Jake, so we got along splendidly. My cousins, five and eight each, clambered around the tree looking for presents, then gathered around TV to enjoy the badly recorded film (the shadows of people walking and talking in the theater was crystal clear though). The veggie trays were now laid out, and for the moment, there was peace, mainly because you couldn’t hear the damn film unless every noise within five miles was tuned out. Then my uncle Tim, the good son, showed up. My dad’s brother could do no wrong, and his kid, little Timmy, was an angel. And we all know that means the kid is rotten to the core. In fact, I usually buy my dope off Timmy, at a discounted rate (we are family) but when he’s around Grandma, he became a being sent by God. I wish I had thought of it, I really do.
The rest of the night went surprisingly well. Jake and I didn’t get into a fist fight (usually happens at least once every Christmas) and Tommy didn’t either. As the night wore down, Timmy and I smoked some weed off the back porch, enjoying the way the cold air made the smoke into funny shapes (were we ever high). Eventually, the rest of the family headed off to bed leaving me and my mom to lay the remaning gifts out under the tree. All in all, a peaceful night. As I went to bed, I had a funny feeling that something was missing. I couldn’t put my finger on it just then, but there was a problem.
Then I remembered, at about two in the morning, when I first heard it. For the most part, I’m a night person, except Christmas eve since I have to get up so damn early (around 6 am) for the great unwrapping. Anyways, during those long, sleepless nights, I stay up and watch old war movies and documentaries on TV, and after a while, you get used to the sound effects and the real noises of certain weapons. This was flak, and I realized what had been missing, my Grandfather. I ran outside to see, and hear, a horrible sight. My Grandpa was sitting in a turret he built, firing flak shells high into the air, at what I’m not sure. I turn, looking for some answers, any answers, and instead find my family.
My sister and Tommy’s wife were comforting the children while my mom and the Grandmothers were at the window of the darkened living room watching on in wonder and terror. Jake was hiding behind a car while Timmy was busy with another joint trying to figure out what the hell all the fuss was about. Meanwhile, uncle Tim and my dad were discussing which mental home my Grandpa should be placed in when this was all over. Only Tommy and I seemed to realize that something, anything, had to be done to stop this madness.
With the flak cannons beating on our eardrums, I leaned toward Tommy and gave him my plan. “Let’s get him,” I said. Okay, so it wasn’t much of a plan, but my feet were cold in the ankle deep snow, and I was sleepy. He nodded, so we charged ahead. We lept onto the back of the turret and grabbed my Grandpa from behind. Now, my Grandfather is a big man, we’re talking Andre the Giant big, so he about threw both of us for a loop. Tommy finally manages to grab his arm and the gun turret starts spinning wildly. The trigger, for some reason, had gotten stuck, and now flak shells were being tossed through the nearby buildings, including my parents house. On shell crashed through the window, over my mothers head, and between both grandmothers, and into the Christmas tree, turning the living room into a scene from Backdraft.
While my mother and grandmothers ran/rolled for there lives, I grabbed for the trigger and tried to get it unstuck. That’s when I saw it. A red dot of light, apparently not connected to the turret. I looked up to where I figured the beam came from in time to see a deer shaped head with a bright red nose and a laser sight. A quick, and unintentional, due to the thrashing my Grandpa was giving Tommy, look up revealed a sleigh like object being pulled by eight deer shaped objects, and a falling bomb. I screamed, and with a strength I never knew I had, I grabbed Grandpa and dragged him out of the turret and on to the ground, just in time. A second later, the turret exploded in a fireball.
At least eight fire companies had to be called in that night. Most of the block had been destroyed, again. I have a distinct feeling that few, if any of us, would be allowed back into this neighborhood. Not that it mattered, my parents house was torched, and now I had to go back to living in my tent.
As the last of the flames went out, Jake finally said something. “Cynthia,” he said to my sister. “Your grandfather is a ****ing moron.”
As much as it turned my stomach, I had to agree. Then, he turned to me.
“It must run in the family.”
My parents took up residence in my tent, which uncle Tim and Tommy improved greatly. It should be fairly warm this winter. Tommy went home, a hero to his children for saving Santa. Timmy was busted for drug possession because he insisted on lighting a joint on the smoldering remains of my parents home. Tim is trying to get him out, but I doubt his chances. Grandpa ended up in a mental home, and Grandma visits him everyday, hoping that he’ll be better soon. The other Grandma went home so she could ***** about life in peace. My sister spent New Years at home with her children and a lawyer, though I’m not sure why. And Jake, well, he’s in the hospital. I tried to explain to the officer that I didn’t mean to break every bone in the man’s face, but they wouldn’t listen. So I’ll be spending some time in the local jail. Not quite my parents house, but at least its warm.
All in all, this has to be the best Christmas we’ve had in a long time.
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:confused: :lol: :wtf: :nod:
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Originally posted by GalacticEmperor
:confused: :lol: :wtf: :nod:
^What he said with a few more :lol::lol::lol::lol:
l Merry Christmas everyone! ;)
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it was good, flak on a front lawn, now that would be a sight...:lol: :lol: :lol: :lol: :lol:
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And I thought my family was disfunctional...
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Tonight, I present a double feature. Unfortuantly, these also happen to be the worst of the batch. Both, however, become important for Road Trip, so I'll hang on to them. Maybe I'll rewrite them someday. Until then, be gentle, I know they're not as good as the other two:
So There I Was. . .
My Friend Steve
So there I was, careening toward my death at speeds that should not be done in a car out in the woods, ever. Its times like these that I relive my entire life over in my head. The fact that I’ve done it so many times before prevents me from actually enjoying the event as most people do when faced with death. In fact, I know my life so well because of these experiences, that I remember farther back into my childhood then anyone else I know. Of course, no one believes me because as far as they’re concerned no one can remember as far back as I can. Oh well, doesn’t really matter I suppose. In any case, the strongest moments I relive are the moments that led up to the current attempt to catch Death’s eye.
It all started with a party that went so out of control, the National Guard had to be called in and my house was torched. Then I went home for the holidays, where my Grandpa attempted to shoot down Santa Claus. Then I broke every bone in my brother-in-law’s face and ended up in jail, again. I was so set though, because now I had a warm place to stay in instead of a tent in my backyard. Then, I was released. Apparently, some guy named Chris sent a letter to the judge on my behave claiming I had saved his life. The judge was so moved, I was released and put on probation. If I ever meet this Chris, I’m gonna give him a black eye, because now I have nowhere to stay. That is, unless I called on a friend for help, something I really didn’t want to do.
Now, I have a lot of friends. We hang out, drink, break various minor laws and occasionally break a really big law for kicks. A great bunch of guys and gals. Unfortunately, most are in prison here and abroad, have been deported, commited, and the rest are under surveillance by the FBI, CIA, KGB (I know, I’ll explain in a minute), FDA, Fish and Game (there are some things you should never do to a fish), ATF, NAACP, AARP, KKK (I’ll have to tell you this one someday), ASPCA, Greenpeace, GOP, UAC (United Ambulance Chasers) and, of course, various insurance companies.
(KGB is not the real KGB, but the Klingon Guard Board, or something like that. I won’t go into details, but it involves a Star Trek convention, a semi, something called the “Wig Makers Answer to Rogaine” and the fact that before that date, William Shatner never needed a wig. I honestly never knew Trekkies could be so damn sensitive.)
So there are really very few friends I can call on to help me in my time of need. So I called Steve (he has the shortest rap sheet) and he agreed to let me stay at his place for a few nights. Now, imagine for a moment the dirtiest, foulest, sickest looking room on Earth. Got that in your mind? Good. That’s Steve’s place after he cleans it and does the laundry, and he’s never done his laundry (I think). Thankfully, I still had a bit of a cold after standing around in ankle deep snow watching my Grandpa shoot at Santa. Still, I had about eighteen cans of Lysol and more incense than the local coven. It’s a foul place to live, but its warm, relatively. Okay, so the incense keeps me warm. In any case, I would have to stay here until my parents find a new place to live and move out of my tent.
After a couple of days, Steve comes in an announces that he’s going to one hell of a party and wants to know if I want to go. After two days in the hell he calls home, anything, anything has to be better, so I went along. It took about two hours to get there, driving through the local woods (now being cut down to make way for a mega mall) to an old shack on a hill. If you ever seen any Evil Dead film, this is that house, only bigger and scarier looking. Still, there was a hell of a party going on inside, so I didn’t pay attention too much.
Most of the night is a blur to me. I remember lots of drinking, dancing and drugs, but not much else. If the evil dead decided to join us, they didn’t make much noise about it and probably had a pretty damn good time. I think I did. The next morning (okay, afternoon, but I didn’t have my watch, so I thought it was morning) I woke up a bit hungover (the more hungover you get, the more used to it you get, either that or I took a lot of painkillers that night) and looked over the scene. It looked like a mass suicide had occurred the previous day, the sign that this was a great party. I then looked out the window to see a police car sitting there, and more on the way.
“Holy ****,” I yelled. “The cops!”
The whole room stood up at once, Steve suddenly grabbed my arm and we flew out the back door while the other guests pulled out various fire arms and began firing wildly at the police car. The newly arrived police cars, including a SWAT van, pulled up and began to return fire. This whole time, Steve is dragging me to his car, and we go speeding down the road, and away from the shootout.
Later I learned that the cops had not been after the party goers, but a group of militia men held up in a cabin a few miles away. The militia men were so infuriated that a bunch of drugged out kids had taken away all their publicity, that they charged at the party goers. Most of the police made out safely, and later found what appeared to be a battle field between the party and the militia. I would quote numbers, but you should see them in your local paper, unless they’re covering the event up, again.
In any case, Steve and I were burning rubber down the forest road at speeds that we really shouldn’t be going at. This is, of course, where I began. Suddenly, a tree jumped right out in front of us, and Steve swerved to miss it. We began spinning around like a blender, hoping and praying that we’d survive to see at least one more party. Suddenly we stopped dead. No movement, no nothing. We sat there stunned. We looked at each other, and began to laugh. God, did we laugh. We laughed as hard as either of us had ever laughed in our lives. When we heard the horn the first time, we laughed harder. The second time we laughed even harder than the first. The third time, however, we saw the semi and stopped laughing.
I’ll give Steve credit for one thing, he at least got a car with airbags. We survived the head on collision with the semi, and were later rescued by firefighters on their way to the battle field. Steve had seven broken bones, a punctured lung, and multiple lacerations, I had a few bruises and was laughing when I was pulled out. Of course, I went to the hospital, and Steve was sent home. Gotta love HMOs. When I first got to the hospital, where I am now, I shared a room with none other than Jake, his face still wrapped in ten pounds of bandages. When I said hello, he instantly tried to claw his way out of bed, and ended up crawling up the front of a fairly attractive nurse. His healing process isn’t going well, and I learned today that Cynthia is using this as ammo for a divorce. Along with the kids, she’s going to take the cheap bastard for everything he has. Just goes to show, my sister really is smarter than I thought.
And for the moment, I’m still warm.
So There I Was. . .
At Work
So there I was, standing behind the counter while this punk kid pushed the gun barrel closer to my face, again. As unpleasant as this sounds, this was the highlight of my first, and at that moment, possibly my last day at work.
After weeks of physical therapy, I was finally able to walk on my hands. That was about when the therapist noticed that I did have legs, and she promptly kicked me out. So now I was faced with a hospital bill that I had been putting off since they found out that I wasn’t really hurt and Steve was crippled (he also got a very good lawyer, so I’m sure I’ll be seeing more of him in the future). To prevent paying the bill, I simply slipped in and out of a dozen wards in the hospital, hoping the bill collector wouldn’t find me. I was in the burn center where I was wrapped as a mummy for three days, then had to go to the bathroom, surgery, where I had my tonsils, appendix, and several organs that may or may not be important removed, the pregnancy ward after conniving the nurses there that I was too pregnant (they figured it out during a sponge bath), and finally physical therapy.
When I was kicked out, I ran smack into the bill collector, who didn’t recognize me for a moment since I was still on my hands. Finally, he handed me the bill. I offered a pound of my flesh, but he said he’d already been through surgery and got 3 or 4, and I still owed them. Damn.
So I sat on the small cot in the tent in my backyard, staring at this bill, trying to figure out what to do. Mom and dad were busy moving their few remaining positions out so they could move in with my sister who managed to force Jake to pay an ungodly amount in alimony. My mom came over and asked what was wrong and I told her.
“Is that all?” she said after looking at the bill. The last 12 years of having MS had desensitized her to really large hospital bills. I explained I didn’t have that kind of money, and I wasn’t going to as Cynthia for a loan, because she could always find me.
“Well then dear,” she said. “Get a job.”
I laughed, hard. I didn’t mean to, it just came out. A job? Preposterous. I’ve been out of the house for years and I have yet to have a job. Mostly I’ve been stealing to live. Not from anyone who couldn’t afford it, of course. I would never steal from the guy living in the TV box down the street. But the one in the refrigerator box is fair game to me. And if I wasn’t stealing, I was gambling with what I didn’t have. How did you think I got the house and the insurance to rebuild it anyway? So I laughed at my mom and asked her to be serious.
“I am being serious Quentin,” she said.
I hate being called Quentin. That’s worse than calling me an eight headed shnook (and I should know). I knew then she was serious, and I would have to get a job. But what kind of job? And how? My mom handed me the local paper, opened it to the classifieds and told me to read. So I did.
And I found a job. A good job, I think. I became the cashier of a small shop on the north side of town. It’s one of those places that has everything, but doesn’t really have anything. And a lot of people have to be referred to the back room to meet with my boss. An awful lot of people. I suppose I could speculate on what they do back there, but I’ve learned enough in my time not to.
My first day, I stood behind the counter, and sat there, and basically did nothing for about three or four hours. I only referred people to the back that were supposed to go there thanks to a list of names the boss left for me. At about 3, this kid comes in and begins walking around the shop with something heavy in his pocket. I take no notice because I don’t care if he steals something. Hey, before I got a job, that’s what I did. Eventually, though, he comes up to the counter, puts a candybar down, and pulls out the gun.
“Give me all your money!”
I stood there staring down the barrel cool as ever. It’s not the first time I was threatened by a man with a gun, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. He yelled at me again, adding the threat to blow my ****ing head off.
“You’re doing it wrong,” I said. Just as he was about to wonder at that statement, I snatched the gun from his hand. The kid stood there stunned, still holding up his hand like the gun was in it. I even think I saw him pull the imaginary trigger.
“Listen, if you’re gonna rob stores, at least do it the right way.” And I began to explain the finer points of armed robbery. Not that I’ve ever done it before, I just have a lot of friends that do. I explained how to hold the gun, why he should wear a mask and gloves, and why he should consider not putting bullets in the gun (It’s not armed robbery if the gun isn’t loaded). He listened intently, like I was the only person in the world that took time out of my pathetic life to make his less so. After about twenty minutes, I emptied the cash out of the register into a small bag and handed it to him.
“Remember what I taught you,” I said. “You’ll last longer that way.”
He thanked me and left. A few minutes later, my boss comes out and asked if that was a customer. I explained that we had been robbed, and the thief was long gone.
“Is that a fact,” he said. Nothing else. No police, no nothing. He simply didn’t seem to care. Which is good considering I had already pocketed about fifty bucks for my first job celebration that night. He simply put more money in the drawer, and we went back to the normal grind, me sitting there, directing the select to the room in the back. The next day, a small group of kids come in along with the one from the previous day, and they asked if I could teach them other things. I agreed.
So now I have two jobs, for which I’m very well paid. Firstly, I direct a select group of people to a back room where my boss takes care of them, and then I teach the local gangbangers how to rule the town. I also occasionally sell things from the shelves, but this is rare, so its not really a job. Currently, I still owe over $13,000.00 on my hospital bill, but with what I’m bringing in, I’ll have that paid off in a couple of months. God, this job stuff is easy.
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:lol::lol::lol::lol:
OMG SO ****ING FUNNY! ROFL LMAO!
teaching armed robbery...except its not armed :lol:
need more of these! (You should get a gallery all to youself just for these!)
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:drevil: This is getting better.... Let's start rating this thread!
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LOL!!:D:D That stuff was great...:D
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question: is that nonloaded gun=not armed robbery thing true or did you make that up? Very funny btw
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Heh. Keep it coming. ;)
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I'M IN COLLEGE!!
PEOPLE ARE STARING AT ME!!
...CAN'T STOP LAUGHING.
Next time you're going to post something this funny put a warning on it for mercy's sake. :lol:
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There was actually an incident a few years ago where a guy tried to rob a gas station. The guy pointed his finger at the clerk there and told him to give all of his money, or that he would shoot. (with the finger) When the clerk refused, the guy just ran away.:D:D
That guy needs to get some lessons regarding thievery.:D
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Actually, that crack came from Raising Arizona. Oh, and this is a warning, the following may be funny.
I don't know how long the delay between "At Work" and this piece was, though I suspect it was a few months at least. And, since it followed the events of the Other Date Which Will Live in Infamy, I had to do something. So with rumors that Halloween, my favorite holiday, would be canceled in its wake, I decide to make some of my own fun. After this, there are two more episodes and then the first episode of Road Trip. Enjoy.
So There I Was. . .
Halloween
So there I was, standing against the wall of my garage with a hick cop pointing his gun at my ever so delicate head.
“Put the pitchfork down!” He shouted again.
Don’t worry, this is normal for Halloween.
Every year since I moved to New Herrigton I have set up the most extravagant Halloween thing I can afford, which isn’t very much. Luckily, I got a job, and have racked up a few favors, and this year I went all out. Halloween, for me, has basically been like Christmas. Hell, I’d rather go home for Halloween than for Christmas, but after the last time, I’m banned from the neighborhood for that particular holiday. So I try to replicate the fun I have at home amongst my neighbors, no matter how much they hate me for it. This year I decided to go with a hell theme, and really knock their socks off.
For starters, opened the newly installed garage door (the garage being the most complete portion of my house thanks to those damn union construction workers. Breaks
every ten minutes my ass!) and set up shop there. Above the door, and between the open roof (damn union workers) I place a sign that said “Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here.” I’m thinking about leaving it up for all time. Inside, I set up various gruesome displays with decapitated people and such. It’s a two car garage, so use your imagination.
Along the walls were cut out images of fire were set up along the wall, and some really neat pots that burst with real flames. Oh, and a big ass space heater to keep the place nice and warm. In the center, surrounded by the horrors of hell, is my throne, made of dozens of those medical school skeletons (don’t ask how I got them). On either side of the throne are my little devils, strippers who owed me at least one night. Really, these girls are for the pre-teens of the neighborhood, and are bound to make the place popular for the guys in town. I thought about charging, but that wouldn’t be fair to the little ones.
Next to my throne is my big cauldron of candy, which shall serve me well throughout the night. Of course, to ensure the hellishness of the candy, I serve the most evil candy of all time: Pixisticks. That’s right folks, pure sugar, the single most dangerous thing you can give a bunch of five year olds. My evil has no bounds, which is why I dressed up as Satan himself this year (usually I go as Death, but I wanted a change this year). This being me, however, means that all hell will literally break loose.
Things started out fine. There weren’t many kids out, for obvious reasons, but there were enough to make it worth the effort. There were a lot of interesting costumes. I saw one little girl dressed as Spongebob Squarepants. The poor thing was basically in a store bought cardboard box painted to look like the character. I saw a lot of ninjas, a few Scary Movie killers, and a flower child (the scariest costume of them all). There was one kid in BDU’s (Battle Dress Uniforms, I can’t believe I remember that) and a broken leg (the kid had a broken leg) that simply couldn’t make it in, so I sent my devils out with the candy. They made his day.
Generally, the kids loved my set up. It was horrific, but fun at the same time. I looked positively dashing as the Prince of Darkness, with a pair of really big horns and my plastic pitchfork. We all had a good time. The only thorn in this mess were the parents, who didn’t appreciate a lot of what I had done (especially the strippers). But they were few and far between, so it didn’t really matter. Or it wouldn’t have mattered if the Johnsons from down the block hadn’t shown up.
Okay, so it wasn’t totally their fault, I probably should have known better, but damn it, if it wasn’t for Mrs. Johnson shrill screams and overreaction, life would have been much easier. Anyways, the Johnson’s two boys, twins, about 10 or 11, came into my chamber of horrors to get their candy while Mr. and Mrs. Johnson stayed outside, glaring at me. I swear, if those sticks up their asses were any higher, birds could have nested in their mouths. So Bobby, the elder by about 12 minutes, steps up and I hand him about a dozen pixisticks while Billy, the younger, takes a good look in my cauldron to see what’s all in there. I usually put glow sticks in the bottom, so the whole pot kind of glows.
“What’s that white powder?” he asks.
I look in, and see one of the pixisticks has burst open, normal procedure for pixisticks. I half wish they’d put them in steel tubes, but I digress. So I look at the powder, which is reddish by the way, though that’s hard to tell with the glowing green, and tell him exactly what it is. Sort of.
“Oh, that’s just the Anthrax I put in there.” Yes, I know it probably wasn’t the most brilliant idea I’ve ever had, but I used cocaine last year and heroin the year before, so I needed something.
And that something triggered the loudest, shrillest scream in the history of screaming. All of it from Mrs. Johnson.
“ANTHRAX!!”
Me, the kids, the strippers, the squirrels that live in my unfinished rafters (damn union workers) stop cold. I think she broke some glass. At the very least, her husband broke the four minute mile in a dash into the garage, grabbed both kids, and left the same way, candy spilling out into the cul-de-sac on which I live.
“ANTHRAX!” That damn woman kept screaming. Now the whole neighborhood is up in arms. Parents grabbing their kids and leaving, usually at high speed, for who-knows-where. I sure as hell don’t. And so, by only eight o’clock, Halloween was over.
So I’m standing in the garage door with my little devils, staring across the neighborhood.
“So I guess Halloween is over,” one of them said.
“Looks like,” I replied. “Well, if you’ll help me get some of this cleaned up, you can head on home.”
“Thank God, I’ve got a shift in an hour and I need my beauty sleep.”
So we go back into the garage and begin cleaning it up. There’s a lot, of course, mainly putting out my flaming pots so they don’t burn my incomplete house to the ground. Now, in the middle of the cul-de-sac is a street lamp, a very bright street lamp. Bright enough that with the flames out, you can see the shadows in the light. So when I saw another large shadow, I figured there was at least one sane person left in the neighborhood.
“Put the pitchfork down!”
Ah, but this is where you came in. Anyways, the shouter was a cop, a very new cop, with a very large gun. Always a bad combination. So I look at him with my standard ‘Are you a dumb**** or what’ look. “It’s plastic.” I protest.
“Put the pitchfork down, or I’ll plug you!”
Into what? Well, aside from that, I learned that anyone who says ‘plug you’ and is holding a gun really, really wants to use it. Dumb****. I put my plastic, store bought pitchfork on the ground and raise my hands up.
“Now down on the ground you dirty towelhead!”
Towelhead? I’ve been called many things in my time, but never towelhead. What the hell is a towelhead anyway? I reluctantly took up the position, on my knees, with my hands behind my head like the good little ex-con that I am sometimes mistaken for. So do my devils, certainly not pleased as it looks like they’ll be late for work, and damn it, they have a college education to support!
“Now I’ll be famous,” the hick cop says as he hand cuffs the lot of us. “I caught those dirty A-rabs spreading Anthrax.”
Ah, so that’s it. A towelhead is a Muslim/Arab. It all makes sense now. The only problem is, I’m so white I’ve been mistaken for an albino and I’m agnostic (don’t know if there’s a God) or egoist (I am God). Of course, this hick wouldn’t know that. I want to make this clear now that not all the New Herrington cops are hicks, just this one. How he got hired, I have no idea.
“Are you that damn stupid?” I finally said. “Do we look Arab to you?”
“Shut up you damn towelhead!” He yelled, stomping over to me. I’m really getting sick of the term towelhead by the way. He stops in front of me and stares right in my face. “Go on, you damn Mislum, say something.” Great, he can’t even pronounce Muslim. Oh joy!
“Something,” I say with defiance. Ah, civil disobedience, the greatest weapon of an anarchists war.
And it got exactly the response I expected. He slugged me in the gut and laughed. Yeah, it hurt, but the guy was a natural born whimp, so it didn’t hurt that much. And it put me at the perfect angle for a counter attack. I head butted his crotch.
Unfortunately, I forgot I was still wearing those horns.
The real cops arrived soon after, the hick still in pain. The ambulance that arrived for the anthrax victims instead took a moron with a horn in his crotch to the emergency room. I was arrested for perpetuating an anthrax scare, which the rest of the cops said probably wouldn’t stick, and assaulting a police officer, which probably would.
So now I’m in jail, typing this through the bars while the four strippers I hired to play devils are busy fighting off the come ons from the local drunks. All in all, not a bad Halloween. However, it was nothing like last Halloween, that was something else. Maybe I’ll tell you about it some time.
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:lol:;7:lol:;7:lol:;7:lol:;7:lol:
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:D:D:D:D:D:D I had to really restrain myself from laughing at that one... (I would have woken up everyone else here :D)
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There are at least two unwritten stories to this series. The first would have been the fourth story (Election, involved an exploding convinience store) and one after At Work (unnamed, but lands the time for the previous story sometime last Feb or March). The plots just didn't work, and was part of the reason I laid off until Halloween. That's when I got the idea for this next one, and I decided to get even more outrageous. By now, though, the first ideas for the Road Trip began to form, and some of the characters that will appear there are introduced. So, with one more to go until Road Trip, I present:
So There I Was. . .
Giant, Green, Mutant Turkey
So there I was, staring into the face of a carnivorous turkey looking at me as its Thanksgiving meal, and all I could think of was if this would increase my chances with Janice. Okay, so my mind wasn’t on death, but its not like it was the first time I’ve ever faced it.
For quite a few years now I’ve spent my Thanksgivings at the local homeless shelter, spreading the joy of a hot meal. There are several reasons I do this, one, it fills the many community service hours I’ve been sentenced to. Of course, since I only do this once a year, I haven’t been knocking them off very fast. I’d like to see the bastards make me do more! The second reason is that it reminds me how lucky I am to live in a tent in my back yard. Most of these guys only have refrigerator boxes and coats, so it does my heart good to know I’m actually living a bit better than my fellow man. It also gives me a chance to rip them off, or it did before I got my job. Leftovers are good too. And then there’s my co-workers. Well, one of them anyways.
There are three that are here every year. The first is one of those “do no wrong” types I hated in high school. Gary has an aura of smart and popular coming off him like steam off a hot dog on a cold winter day. In fact, the man is just too damn nice. Always asking if he can help someone, opening doors, helping those who just vomited up a nights worth of feasting, and letting me clean it up. I’ve been doing this for a few years, and Gary has always been here, though I do know he’s going to college now, something to do with genetics. Did I mention the bastard’s rich? He is, and that burns me more than anything else, mainly because I can’t seem to steal his wallet.
One of the two girls, sorry, women, who work there is the kind Gary wouldn’t give the time of day to in high school. Sally just so happens to go to the same college as Gary, though if they know each other there, I don’t know. I do know, she’s doing it on a very tight scholarship, and so she’s basically doing this to maintain it. I can respect that, I suppose. If I still needed money, I’d do the same thing, while mugging the homeless before they eat. I always said “Thanks” by the way, I’m not a completely evil bastard.
And then there’s Janice, the real reason I keep coming back. I’m sorry, but I have to say it this way, she’s hot in every sense of the word. The word “babe” was created to describe this woman. For years, I’ve watched her, waiting, hoping for a chance at a date at least. Unfortunately, its likely not to be. You see, she’s not only married, with a kid, but she’s also a Born-Again Christian. This doesn’t make her completely off limits, but the odds of anything coming to pass is almost nil. So I come back to dream the impossible dream, and rob the homeless.
Not that I do any more, I must stress that, I’ve got a job now. Anyways, the night was pretty normal. Those with no money and no place to go line up for a mixed meal of canned cranberry sauce (the jelled kind, of course), Stove Top stuffing, a piece of bread, mixed vegetables, mashed potatoes and turkey. I served the turkey, cutting each slice with the infamous electric knife that’s only ever brought out for Thanksgiving, or when I need to cut foam (ala Furniture Guys). Dull, boring, and all that jazz. When there was a lull, and there’s always a lull, I stared at Jancie’s chest. Yes, I’m a pig and proud of it.
As we finished cleaning up for the next shift (the regular, non-Thanksgiving shift, yes they really have those), Gary comes up with a serious look.
“Quinn, Janice, can I talk to you?”
“I didn’t do it.” Natural reply. Old habits die hard.
“Do what?”
“Does it matter, I didn’t do it.”
“Whatever. Anyways, I’d like your opinion on something.”
“What is it Gary?” Janice even has the voice of a babe. She’s standing about a foot away, and it takes everything I have to not stare at her and keep my eyes on Gary, but damn it, I’m only human!
“Come on, I’ll show you.”
We follow Gary and Sally to the back room and into the basement. Funny, before that date, I didn’t know there was a basement to this place. Hell, I didn’t remember the door being there, just a blank wall. It was like it was a secret or something. Of course, it was, but I didn’t know that then.
The place looked like something out of a cheesy mad scientist movie. Bulbs flashing colors all over the place, buzzing, churning noises echoing through the halls, and “der switch” up on the wall.
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” I said. I was impressed. Even when I went to college long ago, I never saw anything like this.
“Thanks, now the thing we want to show you is in here.”
“We? How long have you two been working on this.”
“Couple years,” Sally said.
As she said that, Janice and I stepped into a large, dark room. Of course, like any other mad scientist story, and you had to know this is one by now, the door is of course slammed. Now it might surprise you to know that I’m a bit scared of the dark. It’s a relic from when I was a kid and used a nightlight to scare the gremlins under my bed away. Yeah, I was actually scared of that movie too. I’m over it for the most part, but being locked in a dark room didn’t help ease it.
“Let me out of here!”
So I’m a chicken. Sue me. After a couple of seconds of pounding on the door, Janice grabbed my shirt and jerked hard. Suddenly, a dozen fantasies crashed into me at once, and left just as quickly. “Look!”
Just when the cliché’s couldn’t get any worse, there were a pair of glowing green eyes. Of course, at that moment, the lights came on and revealed a giant turkey, in a cage.
“What do you think?” Gary asked over an intercom.
“I could do without the melodrama.” I shouted back.
“Sorry. It was Sally’s idea.”
“Was not!”
“That is one big turkey,” Janice interjected.
And was it ever. About five foot tall, with drum sticks that would make Big Bird jealous. “You know, Thanksgiving is just about over. Unless you’re planning on using this guy for next year.”
“Actually, we were thinking Christmas. But first, we want to test something.”
That’s when an opening appeared on the far side of the cage and out came a cheap stun gun. I’ve been shocked by enough of them to know quality, or lack there of, of stun guns. It zapped the turkey, pissing it off. I mean really pissing it off. That’s when it rose up, and did an Incredible Hulk type deal. The cage door swung open, and the beast charged at us in all its green glory.
Janice grabbed on to me, I thought dirty thoughts, and the turkey began planning its next meal. Aside from my sexual fantasies, I was a bit pissed that two people I thought were relatively harmless, turned out to be mad scientists. Oh well, it wasn’t the first time people have tried to kill me with their homework, and likely won’t be the last. Well, I wasn’t thinking that last part because I wasn’t sure I was going to survive this encounter. The turkey bared down on me, and there was only one option I had open.
I screamed like a five year old girl.
Okay, it wasn’t the most manly thing to do, but what do you expect, I was about to be eaten by a giant, green, mutant turkey. You try it sometime and tell me how’d you react. Luckily for me, the turkey stopped cold at the scream. When I stopped, it shook its head and began charging. I didn’t have to say anything to Janice, as she had already started screeching. I joined in, and we forced the turkey back into its cage where it returned to normal, well, normal for it anyways.
“Gary, Sally, get your asses down here now!” Janice yelled in her mother voice, the most frightful thing in the known universe.
The two college kids stood, their heads somewhere beneath their shoulders, while Janice and I scolded them for trying to kill us. The turkey gobbled.
“And I’ve never seen such disgraceful actions,” Janice yelled.
“I have, but that doesn’t excuse any of this.” Well its true. “Why’d you do it?”
The explanation was the standard “I hate my parents and want to kill them” excuse. For both of them oddly enough. I won’t go into details, but it seems both sets of parents were disappointed in some way or another with their kids. You know, that kind of whiny **** they use on TV all the time.
Janice was more or less stunned at the concept. She simply couldn’t understand why children would want to kill their parents. I understood all too well, but didn’t understand why they wanted to use a giant, green, mutant turkey.
“If you really want to piss them off,” I said. “Get married.”
Last I saw them they were planning a wedding. No invitations were to be sent to the parents, to drive home the point I suppose. I walked Janice back to her car, still thinking impure thoughts.
“That was a nice thing you did,” she said.
“It happens sometimes.”
“You know, if I wasn’t married, I might consider going out with you.”
“You would?” Say that with surprise.
“Maybe not.”
Ah, rejection. I’m used to it by now. It’s alright, there’s still a very small chance something might happen one day in the near future. So I headed home, content with my fitful dreams of Janice, and a pet giant turkey. Any one know what to feed one?
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:lol: :lol: :lol: :lol: :lol: :lol: :lol: :lol:
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:lol::lol::lol::lol::lol::lol::lol::lol:
thats great...a giant mutant turkey. Where do you get these ideas from?
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This just sucked up like an hour of my life
:lol::lol::lol::lol::lol::lol::lol::lol:
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rofl:D:D:D
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Pfft... BWAHAHAHAHAAA! Heehehheh :lol:
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I've gotten more replies here than in any of the other places I've been posting this, including my own forums (http://www.warpstorm.com).
Well, this is it, the last episode of the original "series," if you want to call it that. I had decided to write Road Trip by now, and I needed a bridge. This is that bridge. You know, I never meant to write so many of these things, it just kind of happened. No matter, I've had fun, and I assume that at least a few of you have had fun as well. And so, let me present:
So There I Was. . .
The Wedding
So there I was standing in the middle of a crowded, and now rapidly emptying, church, police sirens wailing, people screaming, and my mutant pet turkey chasing the bride and groom’s parents around the line of pews.
“Why didn’t you tell me he was programmed to attack on sight!” I screamed at the groom.
“I didn’t know they were coming, I swear!” Poor Gary. Despite everything his parents had said and done, they, and Sally’s parents, had still come to the wedding. I suppose he forgot what parental love really is, unconditional, though some parents make their children believe it isn’t.
I suppose I’m a bit to blame as well. After all, it was my idea for the two of them to get married to get back at their parents that created the chaos that now enveloped this once peaceful piece of holy ground. That and I had brought Gobblezilla, my pet mutant turkey. Zilli, as I call him for short, had been created by the newlyweds-to-be to kill, maim, and eat their parents, but I thought the attack had to be coerced. Oh well, life goes on.
The fact that I was even invited to the wedding in the first place took me by shock. Sometime back in December I got the invitation, with gold lettering on some fine looking paper, the hard kind you only get once or twice in your life, unless you get married a lot. The last wedding I had been invited to was my sisters, at which I was personally responsible for at least five of the grooms twelve broken bones, the rest were a result of him falling down the stairs trying to get away from me. And that was at the bachelor party before the wedding. Originally, I felt bad for Cythina having her wedding in the hospital room. Then I found out she married him to get a rather vast family fortune the idiot had, and I don’t feel so bad anymore. She’s dating her lawyer now, and seems genuinely happy for the first time.
But that was one hell of a bacholor party, with Jake’s beating being the icing on the cake. Gary’s, on the other hand, was just plain dull, at least at first. The man, despite years in college, didn’t know the first thing about parties, and his best man knew even less. So while I sat on the bar, Gary and his real friends had their ‘party.’ It was a male wedding shower, if you can imagine such a thing. Dull, uninspired, and filled with lots of gay cheering. I watched all this through the glass of whatever **** was the special of the night. After the tenth “Way to go man!” I had had enough.
I pulled Gary to the side. “This party sucks man.”
“What do you mean? I’m having a great time.” So naive. It’s almost a shame to shatter his view of the world. Almost.
“Listen, let me call a few of my friends over, and this party will rock like hell.” Gary had tried to kill me once, so I respected him enough to ask before I called in the troops. Not that his answer would matter. Attempted homicide only goes so far.
“Well, as long as they buy their own drinks, I’m on a budget here.”
“No worries, they won’t even touch your wallet.” Unless they tried to lift it, of course. Not that any of these guys would pay for a drink, ever. A few phone calls later, and things were set up.
The first people to arrive were surveyors, tasked with finding the best place for the massive stereos and the strippers to stand. Next came the strippers and the DJ, who quickly set up shop in the corner. The bartender began to ask a few questions and then just disappeared. He’d wake up sometime the next day with an awful headache in the park across the street. Then the partiers came. Then the police.
Details are fuzzy about what happened. I was drunk off my ass, of course, and Gary lost the naiveté about parties quickly. He also lost his freedom for a few hours, as did anyone who didn’t get out before the raid, and the subsequent burning of the bar. The place was ash by the time we were through, and I was in jail, again. For Gary it was the first time, so it came as no surprise as he was clinging to me for help. Poor kid.
The wedding party managed to get out in time for the nuptials, thanks to a small bribe I managed to get together. Within hours of waking up in pool of my own vomit, we were getting into our monkey suits. I suppose it was then that I decided to take Zilli with us. He had, after all, been the one who brought Gary and Sally together, and so I figured he was owed. I managed to dig up an extra tux jacket and that strange shirt and tie replacement and dress the turkey as best I could. He looked good, damn good.
The church was packed, mostly with people I didn’t know. The one exception was Janice, the hot chick who had been indirectly responsible for the strange turn of events that had transpired. She, her husband Jules, and their kid, three year old Matt. The kid was fascinated by Zilli, and spent most of the time running around the front of the church with him. That turkey had certainly evolved from blood thirsty beast he was only a couple months earlier, I remembered thinking to myself. Oh how wrong I was.
That was when something caught my eye. Jules, the every faithful, Born-Again Christian husband and father, had just turned a corner into a small anti-room of the church. Leaving Janice to watch both turkey and son, I followed, quietly. There are two things that give me some of my greatest pleasures in life. One is pissing off Born-Agains. Its easy to do, just say that their religion is crap, and they’ll be on you like a pack of wolves. The other thing is watching them violate their own beliefs. Hypocrisy at its best. I’m sure you know where I’m going with this, so I won’t bother. With a slight, persistent smile on my face, I returned to Janice.
“Here, you might need this,” I said as I handed her a card.
“What’s this?”
“The number of the lawyer my sister is seeing. You might need it later.”
“What are you talking about?” I probably should have answered her right then and there, but the limo with the bride had just pulled up and it was time to get the show on the road.
“I’ll tell you later.”
Zilli and I sat (as best a turkey can sit, of course) in the back row and watched the boring proceedings. The only wedding type thing I had ever been to was when my parents renewed their vows many years ago. I was eleven then, so its been quite a while. And just as boring as this was. Oh well, not like I was doing anything else that day. Everything probably would have gone well the rest of the day, until they got to those famous words in the wedding speech thingy.
“If there is anyone here who has any reason why these two should not be married, speak now or forever hold your peace.”
“YOU SON OF A *****!” That was Janice. On the card it said Divorce Lawyer, because that’s who the guy is, and I guess it got her thinking. The lipstick on Jules’ lapel didn’t help either. I don’t know why she waited so long, but she did. The next flash saw her handbag bouncing off her husband’s head and up into the crowd.
The audience was stunned., and it only got worse. About then, the main door burst open.
“Wait!” It was Gary and Sally’s parents. Remember parental love? It finally manifested itself. Unfortunately, as I said, Gobblezilla went off on sight. He lept over the rows in the main aisle, and turned into his Incredible Turkey self. And the horror began.
The parents took off, Zilli gave chase. I screamed at Gary, Janice screamed at Jules, and everyone else just screamed because it seemed like the thing to do, which it was of course. After a few minutes, the place had cleared out leaving flowers and debris scattered about. The preacher stood there, his jaw hung low on his face, wondering just what the hell had happened.
“Well, that was different,” he said, and I’d have to agree. Unfortunately, it wasn’t over.
About then, the parents of the lovely couple burst through a side door, followed closely by Gobblezilla, still under the influence of his programming. The altar was smashed, pews overturned, and havoc generally spread throughout the place. Something had to be done, and someone did it. And no, it wasn’t me. What? I’m not crazy.
It was Matt that did it. He screeched. Zilli, of course, calmed down. Just enough for the animal control guys to leash him. I almost feel sorry for those guys, hauling around a giant turkey by the neck with devices designed to haul around dogs is not my idea of fun. With Zilli locked safely in a paddy wagon, the crowd returned to the church, much calmer than earlier, though still shaken. Jules began his apologizing, and explaining. Despite everything, I think Janice will forgive him, damn it all.
The wedding finished like it was supposed to. Gary and Sally’s parents made up with their children. Well, a bit anyways. There’s a lot of ground to cover with that group, which is why I’m not part of that crowd. Zilli was returned to me when it was explained that he couldn’t have been the giant mutant turkey that tried to eat people. And he had been the weapon, not the killer. I didn’t bother to explain that the killers were the bride and groom. I haven’t heard from Janice, though my sister did mention that her boyfriend had met with Janice for a bit. I went home with a load of wedding cake, the reception cut short due to the shock of the turkey attack, and the fact that it was boring as hell. Gary will learn one day what a party is, but after only one lesson, he didn’t learn much. That cake is good though. Wish I had some more.
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:lol::lol::lol::lol::lol::lol::lol::lol: ROFL!
That was the best one yet! These are sooooo funny!
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:lol: :lol: :lol: :lol: :lol:
says it all
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And now the first episode of So There I Was. . . The Road Trip!
Oh, wait. You see, this was a trap, a set up. Bait if you will. See, I'm not posting it here, you'll have to go to Warpstorm's City of Light Station (http://www.warpstorm.com/forum/forumdisplay.php?s=&forumid=36) to read it. Yeah, you'll need to make two clicks, sorry, but I want more traffic through there, I am the mod for it after all. And while you're there, why not read some of the other pieces there, comment on them, or maybe even add your own. . .
The next episode comes whenever I finish it. You'll just have to wait.
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People with no life. Can't blame 'em. :o
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Is The Road Trip the mexican one with the drugs? I liked that one.
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God damn it all to Hell!
I must apologize. Until only a few minutes ago, there was an system in place preventing anyone other than the members of Warpstorm from reading threads in City of Light. This has been removed. I'm terribly sorry for the inconvinece, and hope you're still intrested enough in the story to actually read the damn thing.