Post by gamemastergrimwarden on Dec 15, 2015 7:44:58 GMT
Alright! Here's something I wrote, like the Patrick Lesmalls story, it's not supposed to be taken seriously. Enjoy ;D
His name was Larry Storm, and he had the perfect chin. A fact that seemed disturbed the Italians. Perhaps it was that they’d never seen such flawless chin indentation, such even stubble, such blocky composure. Or perhaps, they had heard the legends about the spy, the whispers, the rumors. Whatever the reason, the Italians made sure to keep their revolvers well in Larry’s sight, as he approached their table. Dim candlelight flickered off of wine glasses, casting long shadows across the faces of the already shady club members. Larry Storm sat down across from his Italian connections, slamming a black briefcase upon the table.
“Good evening, gentlemen.” The spy spoke, leaning back in his chair, a glistening revolver on his lap.
“Good evening, Mr. Storm.” One of the Italians whispered, still eyeing Larry’s chin as one would a caged lion.
“What are you men drinking?”
The Italians raised their thin, italian eyebrows, exchanging meaningful glances. There was the quiet click of a revolver. “We don’t drink.”
Larry Storm raised an eyebrow, to match his associates. And then, he gave a shrug, signaling for the waiter.
The waiter, a frenchmen, dressed in snappy, black attire, strode to the table, polishing a wine glass, “what can I get for you, sir?”
“Red or white?”
The waiter’s polishing came to an abrupt halt, and he glanced up at Larry. There was a long silence, only the sound of quiet breathing, and beating hearts could be heard.
“Will that be all, sir?” The waiter suddenly spoke, breaking the deadly silence.
“No. A whiskey, three of them, for each of my friend’s here.”
The waiter gave a sharp nod, and set off on his work.
“We don’t drink...” the Italian at the head of the table repeated himself.
“Oh, trust me, your going to need a drink,” Larry said, softly.
The Italians exchanged a meaningful glance, shifting uncomfortably in their leather chairs. The waiter returned, setting the beverages out on the table, before hurriedly scampering away.
“Your employer is in good health, I hope?” Larry Storm swirled his glass of wine.
This question seemed to stir the Italians more than any before, and they all three downed their glasses in feverish gulps.
“We don’t talk about our employer in public places, Mr. Storm...”
“A few minutes ago, you also didn’t drink.”
The Italians exchanged a meaningful glance, Larry’s wine swirled in its glass, like the thoughts of both parties.
“Yes. He is in good health.” One of them finally whispered. The world could breath again.
Larry gave a quiet nod, his chin flexing in thought, “I don’t suppose your employer has a name?”
“You don’t know our employer, Mr. Storm. He’s not the kind of man who has time for a name.”
“Oh?” The spy raised an eyebrow, scanning the Italian’s faces for a lie, “then why does this one name keep popping up?”
The Italians hissed, their mustaches curling up in anger. The barrel of a revolver peaked over the table top.
“Whoa, whoa, calm down!” Larry raised his hands in mock surrender, the only kind of surrender the spy would ever treat himself to, “I think maybe we got off on the wrong start. Lets just... lets just enjoy ourselves, ok?”
The revolver slipped back under the table, and the Italians gave a nod, “right.”
Larry Storm raised his glass in a toast, eyes still trained on the men, “to the endangered species.”
Glasses tinkled all across the table, the Italians still watching Larry with a sour look. As if he was bad spaghetti. Larry took a deep breath, a bead of sweat forming on his forehead. He settled back in his chair, taking a sip of wine.
“Hmm,” he held up the glass, admiring it, “dry, with an added hint of...”
“Cyanide,” one of the Italians finished his sentence, watching him intently.
Larry raised an eyebrow, “what?” “You were going to say almonds, its not almonds, its cyanide.”
Larry cleared his throat. Straightened his tie. And to the horror of his Italian friends, downed the rest of his drink.
“Shame,” he said, standing up from his chair, “I always liked Italians.”
The Italians stood up as well, revolvers flashed into the air. The noise in the club suddenly died down, all eyes turned to the men. Only the atmospheric hum of the music, and the awkward scooting of chairs, as people hurriedly filed out of the club, could break the fatal silence.
“Who’s Babyface?” Larry growled, revolver trained on the other men.
“Your not supposed to know that name!” one of the men growled, revolver trained on Larry.
“Who is he?” Larry pulled back the hammer on his revolver.
“He’s nobody! He’s a ghost! A big, cuddly ghost!” the Italian barked, sweat pouring down his already Italian face.
Larry frowned, “cuddly?” “I--uh...” the man glanced at his comrades, apologetically, “I shouldn’t have said that...”
“Well then... Gentlemen, its been a pleasure. But I must take my leave,” Larry began to slowly back away. He gestured to the briefcase, “you can have anything in there.”
One of the italians slowly knelt down, unclipping the briefcase. Two million dollars lay inside, neatly stacked.
“I was going to use it to bribe you,” Larry was at the door now, “but apparently I didn’t have to do that.”
“We’re rich!” The Italian looked up at his friends, laughing in disbelief.
Post by Ellron Silvertree on Dec 18, 2015 5:00:35 GMT
That was lovely. Also, just before what NightBlade pointed out, just after Larry says yes to the Red and White Wine, there is a wayward comma. You don't need one before the "and the sound of beating hearts."
The cat had forced my hand. Generally, I would frown upon executing an animal in such a fashion-- I was after all a devoted member of the ASPCA-- but you see, this was a particularly aggravating cat. And mom didn’t like that microwave either, so my actions were justified.
“You killed him?” Mom gasped when she figured out. I had suspected it would take her some time to get used to these new developments.
“No, mother, the concentrated radiation killed him.”
Her hands dropped by her sides and she gave me her ‘why did I create you?’ look. A look I was not fond of.
“D-did... did he feel any pain?” she finally said, scraping pink ooze off of the sides of the microwave.
“He imploded, mother.”
“Yes, but did it hurt? Did he experience any pain?” she asked again in a soft voice.
“He imploded,” I said again, making sure to keep my distance from the translucent goo dripping from the microwave.
She shook her head, brow furrowed in deep thought, “I hope he made his peace with god before he passed.”
I snorted, ‘passed’ was a very light way of putting it. “He’s a cat, mother, he didn’t have a religion.”
She shot me a glare, opening her mouth to say something. But she just shook her head and continued to scoop bubbling puss and smoking hair out of the fried microwave. Mine has always been a religious family, annoyingly so. Every conversation I had with my Mother ended with her trying to evangelize me:
I’d ask, “whats for lunch, mom?”
And, she’d thrust a religious finger in the air, “Every living thing that moves shall be food for you. And as I gave you the green plants, I give you everything.”
“Right, well I’m having cereal.”
“Hey, mom, when’s my allowance?”
“He who loves money shall not be satisfied with money, nor he who loves abundance with his income.”
I found this annoying, at first. But then, I began to realize how much fun religious people could be. Not only could I make mom leave me be by saying that I was having ‘prayer time’, but I could justify any action by simply saying, “Remember that one bible verse, mom?” in a knowing way. Now, before you judge me, this isn’t to say that I’m not a fairly religious person myself. As long as this Jesus guy keeps absolving me from all my sins, he’s got my vote. Chances are, mom would give me a lecture about ‘living in sin’. In my opinion, it was the cat that was living in sin, and I was simply furthering God’s kingdom.
Thats me, Lauren Hart, furthering God’s kingdom one cat at a time.
Needless to say, me and mom had never been very close, despite her best efforts. This isn’t to say that I harbored any bitter feelings towards the old rag, I truly did appreciate the cheese sandwiches she made me. Geometrically flawed, as they were. I’d just never bothered to thank her, I assumed this went unspoken between the two of us. She continued to make sandwiches, I continued to eat them, was their higher praise to give? Apparently so. Mom never seemed satisfied with anything I did. When I’d eat, she’d stare at me from across the kitchen, gray-blond hair stringing down in front of a small, pallid face. She wore a pair of faded, blue pajamas, which still fit her from the 80’s, and an equally depressing frown. I’d only seen her change out of those blue pajamas on sundays, when she’d try her best to dress the both of us up. Mom would put on some cheap brand of lipstick (little more than a red crayon) and the only dress she owned. I’d always wear the same purple get-up, which had been hers when she was ten. She said it went well with my long, black hair. I’d never met my dad, mom’s stories about him were constantly changing. But they all ended the same way: his grisly demise, a part which she told with a strange, sadistic relish.
“Your father crapped out his own heart, and every other vital organ in his body.”
“Your father drowned in a lake, weighted down by a bag of his own fecal matter”
“Your father was dismembered by a mob of Disneyland Imagineers.”
Sometimes, after ‘recounting’ these tales, I’d hear her mutter, “how do you like that, Bill?”
One thing was for sure, regardless if mom’s colorful stories had any truth to them: dad was gone and he wasn’t coming back. It was just me and mom and the pile of ooze that had once been Mr. Fluffy. We managed, somehow... or at least I did, sometimes I wasn’t sure about mom. She seemed so drained of energy sometimes, wandering aimlessly around the house, or just sitting in the living room. Sometimes I found myself feeling a bit sorry for her -- for what, I don’t know.
Post by Warrior of Aror on Jan 25, 2019 4:21:30 GMT
:D I'm so excited! I, too, remember watching the old trailer and hoping that it would be made. And then hearing about that Chinese company a year or two ago that helped fund it. I'm so happy that is coming to fulfillment for ya'll. Has a US release date been announced?
Dmitri Pendragon: Elytra: Wait, it's actually referring to the oldest post on the Underground? (I never did chase that down in fact…)
Nov 27, 2019 19:32:25 GMT
Leilani Sunblade: Rose: Welcome to Whitehall/the new Underground! Glad to see you found your way here. As Elytra said, the riddle's pointing towards the old site and, specifically, a scavenger-hunt type game that WTB and CH set up when they first released the book
Nov 28, 2019 21:11:04 GMT
Leilani Sunblade: Sadly, the game is over, but we still have fun here.
Nov 28, 2019 21:11:16 GMT
Warrior of Aror: Let us sit round the hearth and tell stories of the lives we have lived these past moons! I myself have been working at a grand theater telling Bible stories from behind the scenes.
Feb 29, 2020 1:44:51 GMT