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The Book Of John

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  • GameChristopher


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Posted 29 May 2005 - 10:50 PM


John hated the mornings. Although, really, who doesn’t hate the mornings? You wake up, open your eyes, and immediately shut them again because you forgot to pull the blinds closed last night and the rising sun is beaming into your retinas. You whip a pillow over your head and, while wondering if you still have corneas, you realize that the beautiful, golden-haired thing lying next to you is not, as you first hoped, a supermodel that simply gave up saying ‘no’ to sad losers at the bar and came home with you for a night of pity sex, but, as the rough tongue and hot breath against your knee suggests, your five year old Golden Retriever named Tex. You kick Tex off the bed and stumble into the washroom. You stare at your reflection, noting the dark circles under your eyes and the red blood lines inside of them. You imagine you look like a zombie, resurrected for the simple reason to go to work every day and type numbers into a computer that don’t really mean anything.

John opened his eyes and instantly wished he hadn’t. The sun shone in through the open blinds and, just as he had imagined, the sandpaper tongue of a certain Golden Retriever was scraping against his leg. He kicked the dog away and rolled over, so the sun was only burning a hole in his neck and not his eyes. He looked at the digital readout on the clock next to his bed. It read eight nineteen. Sh*t.

John quickly jumped out of bed, tripped over the dog, promptly fell to the floor, and landed on a discarded shoe. He lay there on the ground for a while, and he didn’t move. This was for too reasons. One, the shoe he had landed on was sticking into his rib cage and had very well bruised one of his lungs, and two, as he lay there struggling for breath he realized that today was not, as he first thought, a work day, but, as the watch laying two feet from his face told him, a Saturday. Which meant that John was not late for the second time this week, but was actually right on time. Which also meant that he could go back to sleep, so he did right there on the floor, as soon as he removed the shoe.

Three and a half minutes later, his eyes were open again.

D Jones
  • D Jones

    smoked out

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Posted 30 May 2005 - 07:57 AM Edited by Wingman, 30 May 2005 - 09:31 PM.

Is this a story? A story of John?

I like it to be honest, the little humor in the beginning about the dog and such. Keep on writing.

Thanks for the comment. I love the Douglas Adams style of writing, so that's what I'm trying to keep throughout the whole story. I hope you enjoy the next section as well.

  • GameChristopher


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Posted 30 May 2005 - 09:27 PM


The reason for John’s second awakening was not, as one would think, one of the normal things that awakes people in the mornings. It was not the dog, as you may have thought, for Tex, after being both kicked off and tripped over, had retreated to the downstairs kitchen and was proceeding to rip the trash bag apart to get to the chicken bones that were left over from a late-night stop at KFC after John had struck out yet again at the bar. And it was not the sun, because, given John’s current position on the floor, the sun could not reach him. No, it was something that was wholly unnatural to occur in the wee hours of the morning, and perhaps that was precisely the reason why it startled John as much as it did. Had it happened in, say, the late afternoon or early evening, John would have thought nothing of it. But here, at this current place in time, it was abnormal.

It was the sound of the doorbell. John groaned, but got up and stumbled down the stairs. He missed the last step and fell forward, his foot flying out to catch something to balance himself but only hitting air. The front door was located right next to the bottom of the stairs, and through the glass in the door John could see someone’s face.
“Hello? Is everything okay in there?” said the Face. John murmured a response, but it was so illegible that not even John himself quite knew what he had tried to say. He rolled his tongue around in his mouth for a few moments, collected his thoughts, and spoke again.

“Yeah.” he said. He thought that, given the circumstances, it was a pretty good response. “Hold on.” John rolled over on his back and sat up, and as he did the sound of a disk popping in his spine makes him turn his head. However, the disk that popped was next to the exact nerve that was responsible for turning heads, so as John turned he felt an extraordinary pain and decided that whatever the noise was it wasn’t that important. He stood up, leaning on the rail that was next to the stairs, putting all his weight on the wooden banister like his mother had always told him not to do because the wood would break. It held. The doorbell rings again. John turns around, trying to keep his head in the same position, and walks over to the door. He reaches for the knob, but without moving his head he can only look out of the bottom of his eye where his depth perception is not as good as it can be, and do he missed the doorknob, and by doing so he smashed his fist into the pure oak door. He cursed loudly, and looked down at his hand to make sure it was okay, and screamed again as a pain shot down his spine from the head movement. As that exact moment, the person waiting outside got impatient, and, deciding to take matters into his own hands, reached for the doorknob and opened the door himself. The Face stared at John for a moment, who had not yet noticed him standing in the open doorway. The Face shakes his head. He coughs. John finally turns and looks at him. They stare at each other for a moment.

John speaks. His voice is dry, a change from what we’ve seen in him so far. As he stares at The Face his whole appearance changes. He becomes serious, and maybe a little afraid. “Hello, Tyler.”
“Jack.” replied Tyler, nodding.
“John.” corrected John.
“Oh, yes, of course. John. I had forgotten about-”
“Why are you here, Tyler?”
Tyler smiles a little at the interruption. He looks John up and down. He nods. “It’s time for you to prove your worth. You’ve been suckling on the Air Force’s teat for long enough, and now it’s time for you to show us why.”
John’s face contorts into a mask of both distaste and interest. He motions for Tyler to come in and shut the door. Tyler does both.

Yeah I know the tense changes. It'll do that throughout the story, it's on purpose and will be extrapolated on at a later time.

  • BrassKnuckles


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Posted 31 May 2005 - 04:50 AM

Heh. Heh. Heh.


btw "quickly jumped" is totally lame. Who jumps unquickly, anyway? Only Neo. Only Neo.

Yeah, it's late.

  • GameChristopher


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Posted 31 May 2005 - 10:53 PM

Just for that he's going to jump slowly in the next part.

  • GameChristopher


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Posted 02 June 2005 - 12:49 AM


John waves a hand over the couch, and Tyler sits down. John himself sits in the large, leather recliner across from the couch. He bought the recliner for this exact reason, to make him look important whenever the top brass came by. In this case, the top brass was Tyler Norton. John forgot what exactly Tyler’s rank was, and he didn’t care. He always hated the officers, and although Tyler was altogether an okay guy, he was still an officer, and therefore John treated him like some piece of gum that had been stepped on: An annoyance, but generally harmless. Tyler sat on the couch, which John had bout purposefully as well. This particular couch might have been the softest couch ever made, because it used the Tempur™ material that had been developed by NASA, and as such it formed a mold to the human body, making it impossible to sit at attention or keep any kind of serious aura around you. The more you tried to restore order to the couch, the more it fought back. Tyler decided it would be better to stand. John rocked back and forth in his leather throne.
“You have heard of the SSN-775 Virginia-class New Attack Submarine Centurion launch?”
“I don’t watch the news much, Tyler.”
“I’d prefer you to call me Sergeant Norton.”
“I prefer Tyler.”

Tyler moved out of his parade rest stance and advanced toward John. John didn’t budge, even when Tyler got right up in his face. John could smell his breath. The man had used a breath mint recently. He was a thinker, you had to give him that. Still, John was not impressed. He had had top brass in his face before, screaming everything they could think of at him, and he walked out of it unfazed. Tyler, on the other hand, was confident that the closer he was to John, the more of an impression he was making. He leaned in close, only a few inches away from John’s face.
“Lets get one thing straight, Jack, right now,” and as he used the name Jack he added a sneer, as to show John that he didn’t care about silly names. “You are an outsider. I don’t give one flying piece of jack sh*t if you are a part of Operation W-Boat or not. I can terminate your involvement right now. So, John,” and here again the sneer came, “what’s it going to be. My way, or you lonely ass bumming your way down the highway?”

John placed a hand on Tyler’s shoulder and, in a gesture so genuine that Tyler almost believed it, patted him on the top of the head. “Calm down, Tyler. Go back and sit down. I’m at full attention.” Tyler ‘s eyes narrowed, and he watched him as John pressed a button on the couch arm rest. The other arm rest clicked, and then it opened with a whirr of the hydraulics. John reached in and pulled out a beer. He closed the arm rest and motioned for Tyler to go back and sit down. Tyler does.
“So, Tyler, why is it again you, as they say,” John opens the Icehouse bottle with a loud POP, “darkened my doorstep?”
“The SSN-775 Virginia-class New Attack Submarine Centurion,” repeated Tyler, “You remember it.” It wasn’t a question, just a statement. John nodded, sipping on his beer. Tyler continued.

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