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Atmosphere Awards!

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Voting begins tomorrow after I've uploaded my story.

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Mokrie Dela

Typhus's story is indeed great, but am i the only one who found the speech too modern?


Not sure I'll have an entry this round. Writing something atm and trying both may not be smart, plus i can't compete with Typhus's and i can't think of anything at all!

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Typhus's story is indeed great, but am i the only one who found the speech too modern?


Not sure I'll have an entry this round. Writing something atm and trying both may not be smart, plus i can't compete with Typhus's and i can't think of anything at all!

I found that as well especially when one of them said "innit". That said Typhus story still is in a league of its own and as of such my vote goes to that one smile.gif.

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Typhus's story is indeed great, but am i the only one who found the speech too modern?

I'm sorry.

I really don't know why I'm so f*cking stupid, I just don't know any more.

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Typhus's story is indeed great, but am i the only one who found the speech too modern?

I'm sorry.

I really don't know why I'm so f*cking stupid, I just don't know any more.

Are you joking?. Because your not stupid mate. It's still a great story.

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El Zilcho


Typhus's story is indeed great, but am i the only one who found the speech too modern?

I'm sorry.

I really don't know why I'm so f*cking stupid, I just don't know any more.

It is many degrees too modern, indeed, but not only is replicating High Medieval English a daunting task of both research and execution, it is also hard to follow. Typhus' use of modern English works well, allowing us to read and enjoy the piece without the effort of deciphering archaic grammar and syntax. Whether or not that was intentional is largely irrelevant; I found it worked.

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Typhus's story is indeed great, but am i the only one who found the speech too modern?

I'm sorry.

I really don't know why I'm so f*cking stupid, I just don't know any more.

Ha! Relax, brother. It's never down to asininity, it's just down to research. Don't be so hard on yourself.


And on another topic, my story was wiped. So the voting can continue and based on the next song; I'll upload it. OR I'll bust out at later today and then we wll commence the voting.

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The original copy was wiped so this is written from my notes. I apologize for uploading this decrepit first draft. sneaky2.gif


San Darkos, 2115


The lower levels were always so dark and empty. It had been like this for years. The bars down here weren’t for show; they were barely considered to be bars anymore. Sector 20s only place left to drink was the auto-mated HELIX bar that was empty most of the time anyway- even the old owner had set up contracts to have an automated program running the bartending system.


As much as Tyron liked to revel in the bar’s unaesthetic qualities, he found himself down here an awful lot. He didn’t understand why sh*tholes like this interested him anymore. Maybe it was the NAB playing down the other end; emitting a neural algorithm that calmed the nerves of all the patrons. It played a soft yet clanking melody that was used to disarm the violent outbursts that would normally ensue here. Since the NABs placement, the bar had just become a rusted old coffin where people occasionally stopped in. This place was just a sheltered vendor; no bartender- he had earned his credits and moved up to Sector 60 or somewhere equally nice.


Across from the man draped in black, his hands spinning a shot of Vanage, two cops were idly chatting away. Not taking much interest in him as he stared down at the pancakes that were half-eaten, the two continued on with their conversation- not worried for their safety in such a disarming place.


“And the kid pulls out a level three detonation device!” said the fat one, his moustache becoming soaked as he sipped a piping hot mug of Viraginex Coffee Fluid; the name printed on the side of the mug with a dancing mug on it. The cop closer to Tyron was thinner and much taller than the other two patrons in the room.


“Did he have a C-Forty Eight Possession Handler?” asked the thin cop as before chowing down on some processed bacon.


“They come in pairs, so yeah, he had it,” the fatty stared forward, Tyron could make out disgust in his voice, “he could legally blow up a small block.”


“How did a low-level grunt get hold of a C-Forty Eight Possession Handler?” said the thin cop as he raised his arms.


“That’s not the kicker! The f*cking kicker is, is I tell him I’m a cop, so I got outweighing contracts on my DS2 and that means I can confiscate and disarm the device.” A speeder sped past Helix’s, the faint dying sound of a siren came with it. Whatever it was chasing, down here, it could find a way out. The three stared as it sped by and then slowly returned to their positions; all of them eating. The program; a sexy-looking mechanic-like woman approached Tyron.


“Can I get you anything else, sweetie?” it asked, her frame leaning on a non-existent bar; the calibrations were off.


“No, thankyou.” He said with a slight wave.


“Wait!” yelled the thin cop, shaking the hologram out of it’s lean. It mechanically approaching the two and began to pour coffee. “We don’t have contracts that outweigh detonation devices so why lie?”


“I have a C-Four Seven Three Falsification Act which states I can legally lie as long as it’s in the coding parameters of C-Ten to c-Fifty.”


“Oh, continue,” replied the thin cop as he winked to the hologram. It giggled flirtatiously as expected and floated through into the backroom of the dingy, metallic, steel-like diner.


“The funny thing is, the little tito-guava-whatever the f*ck they’re breeding down in the slum-levels must have been born backwards cause he told me,” the fat cop slung his arms wide and began to imitate a monkey, “Eh there, oi o’ yay? I gotsta kamikaze and brash acts contract, you got me, O?”


“No such contract exists.”


“I’m a professional, honey,” he took another sip of coffee and belched. Tyron looked away fro the oafish man. “I know the rules.”


The thin cop was intrigued as he was corrupted by the man’s putrid essence that seemed to irradiate from his large self. Like a child curious about a story they’d heard a hundred times before but still felt that twinge of curiosity. “So did you lay a whoopin’ on him?”


“Once I realized my contracts were in order, I took the device, picked up the little spitf*ck and hauled him into the back of my speeder.”


The thin cop rubbed his bald chin and crossed his arms as he thought for a second. Tyron continued to listen half-mindedly as he span his fork in his hand.


“Did he pull a ‘freedom of excessive use of a sharp blade in a detainment area’?” another speeder sped past, this time nobody felt the need to turn. Outside the clear windows a few people slowly walked around. For such a smoggy place, the windows were always immaculate, Tyron had only noticed just now.


“Well he had the right to,” the fat cop swirled his coffee lightly, “but he didn’t have a blade or a level eight weapons license, so…”


With a mouth full of fried bacon the thin cop lightly slapped the metallic table. “Lucky you!”


“You call that sh*t luck? It wasn’t luck when his friends showed up with a C-Eighty Nine.”




“Emancipation of Falsely Imprisoned Felonies Act.”


“No f*cking way, they showed up and snatched him? You let him go cause of the papers?” The thin man slammed his coffee down and waited for the rest of the story- the hologram stepped back out dressed in Laderhosen and approached Tyron.


“Can I get you anything else, von cutie?”


“Nein.” Said Tyron with a smile as she whizzed straight back to the cops; the thin man watched as the oafish one continued to eat a massive spoon of scrambled eggs.


“Nah at some point down here, you just gotta drop the papers and start shooting f*ckers.”


The thin man suddenly turned white. He didn’t like the ending obviously but it was true. The contract system meant you could do anything you wanted in this world, assuming you had the right papers, but this rookie cop- he didn’t like his fate being thrown into the chaos without the chances of escape with paper. Tyron placed a tip on the table and stood up; outside more Sector 20 inhabitants walked by the bar briskly. The sound-proof entrance slid open with a whoosh and Tyron stepped out.


“Thanks for the tip, cut-“The door slid shut and Tyron found himself out on the streets.


Sector 20 looked like the inside of a supercomputer. The very floor beneath Tyron’s feet was metallic and tinny- and beneath it was Sector 19’s even more unstable city that Tyron couldn’t remember the name of. Tubing and electrical pylons protruded most of the industrial towers and beyond the only transports in sight being Police Speeders or Klinkers, Tyron estimated walking too long around here was a bad move. “You could flip a coin and be dead before it landed if you take one of the lower level klinkers.” Said his father once when Tyron had accompanied him down here for his cleaning duties –when they were issued.


Papers littered the metallic roads. The stench of smoke filled Tyron’s nostrils as he slowly strode across the road. Up the road would be a turbolift to where he needed to go. Up the road, under the electrical tracks that shot up and around electrical bridges, there were a bunch of speeders. These were the only types of cars you saw down here; all day and night the Police were handling calls in the lower levels.


Tyron passed a grubby-looking man who lay slumped on a metallic pylon of the electric tracks. Up ahead there lay the turbolift, glinting with light; the brightest place on Helix Row. “Spare some credits?”


“No.” said Tyron, his eyes never moving from the turbolift.


“I got a C-Twenty Two!”


Tyron stopped and pulled out his Jack; a small metallic box thaty seemed to have some sort of circular bulb in the middle of it. He tapped it.


“C-Twenty Two.” A holographic virtual contract formed out of the bulb.


“The right to request ownership of random funds allocated by the public, eh?” said Tyron as he looked down at the grubby and obviously inebriated man.


“Yeah, yeah.” Replied the drunk with his woolly hat lightly gripped in his fingerless-gloved hands. His torn thermo-jacket and soiled green pants made Tyron feel pity.


“Here then,” his fingers ran as fast as the electrical shots that exxploded overhead with hisses. The drunken man pulled out his Jack and stared at it. The holographic words FUNDS ALLOCATED blinked in 3D at the drunk.


“Two hundred!” he said with a smile but as he turned to thank the man, he was gone.


Tyron was stood in the turbolift. Inside was immaculate. No funny smells, no drunks, no cops, and no klinkers. “Please state desired Sector and present contractual legalization,” said a woman’s voice, the hint of seduction in her voice quite obviously a rouse.


“Sector 117,” Tyron flashes his Jack towards the turbolift’s access-panel and in two seconds the lift had shot upwards at a collossal speed. Sectors shot by in blurs, the cascadence’s of light growing ever more brightly as he reached the top levels. From beyond the darkness of the lower levels bright lights suddenly shone like spotlights. Tyron had hit the higher levels.


He walked over to large window and stared out at Upper Darkos. The razor sharp edges of San Darko’s tallest buildings seemed almost too beautiful to be real. They seemed so pristine and clear that for a second Tyron believe he could reach out and slice his finger on the flat edges. Spotlights of red and white light moved around; aimed towards the real sky and not one of electrical and industrial pylons that protruded the next sector’s flooring.


As the turbolift continued its ascent, it began to slow down. Tyron could make out the floors of balconies. Rotundas of restaurants and rich-orientated parties were littered on rooftops. It was as if every night in Upper Darkos was one for celebration. Of course with the eccentric Trillionaires here, you could afford to do anything you wanted without work.


Huge holograph-like bridges linked the buildings of Sector 117’s utopia together. Such beauty, thought Tyron. This place would have been perfect if not for all the snooty-people who believed the rich were all that could exist in such a world.


Once upon a time ago, Tyron had found the industrial pylons below intoxicating –in several ways- and beautiful. Now as he gazed upon these wondrous architectual bohemoths that reeked of simplicity with a sort of brief awe. He had seen them so many times, and tonight wasn’t any different.


The turbolift came to a slow halt; a few floor below, Tyron made out a woman in a white mink jacket talking to somebody. The two sharing drinks as they walked across a holo-beach that was on top of one of the bigger buildings.


“Duct fourteen, Sector one, one, seven. Welcome to the Merovingian Conquest, Mister Tyron,” said the seductive voice as he stepped out into the hallway of Duct 14. Through a pair of black doors ahead, Tyron made out the entrance to the suite. He slowly walked through the doors and adjusted his optics. Behind the black doors there lay a hallway of red and black- a pair of bigger black doors at the end. To his left a glass booth was visible, and from it stepped two men blade in black t-shirts and jeans.


“Easy there, buddy,” said the muscular black one as he walked forward with his hands raised; threat on visual, exceed with caution, “where’d you think you’re goin?” He was quite fit; his voice didn’t fit the image of a security supervisor. It seemed too flamboyant or camp for Tyron’s liking.


“I’ve got a contract.” said Tyron as he brushed past the camp guard. The heavy-set Chinese man stood in front of him; blocking him from the scanner that lead to the suite.


“Read the name on his back, we’re Conquest’s security. If you’ve got the legal sh*t, we’ve got stuff to render them useless.” said the camp guard as he stood next to the fat Chinese one again.


“All contracts are null and void up here.” He said as he scratched his goatee. A look most Chinese people couldn’t pull off.


“I’ve got clearance above security.” said Tyron.


“Is that so?” replied the camp guard with raised eyebrows.


“I contain two C-five, five sevens and C-six, six, five Contracts that permit me to not only take command of Security Supervisors with only C-two hundred contracts and below, but I can also remove them from their job.” He said with a brief smile.


Silence filled the hallway for a brief second as the camp guard rubbed his chin with concentration.


“Nice, but falsification contracts don’t work here, boy.” said the fat chink.


“Scan my contracts,” said Tyron as he pulled out his Jack as speedy as Gonzalez. “You’ll see I don’t own a Falsification Contract.”


“Show me.” said the camp guard. Tyron flashed his Jack and set off the example template of it. The words CONTRACT LEVEL 600 flashed in blurry 3D.


“Well f*ck me, what the hell is your contract?”


“Retirement.” Said Tyron as he continued to let his Jack flick through multiple contracts; the Chinese man more focused on it than the camp guy.


“Got the legal contracts for the kill?”


“Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”


“Okay, wait!” the camp guy looked down the hallway to the black doors. He turned back with a whisper, “Who’s the retiree?”


“Madam Tussain.”


The two guards looked at each and then back to Tyron with faces of pure shock. From both their lips their came the words in unison, “Well, sh*t!”


“Don’t worry boys, you won’t lose your jobs over this, my contracts say that much.” said Tyron as he slipped through the scanner. The guards went back into their booth and the Chinese man began to yell at the rookie who was still perched in the box. Tyron’s hands open the black doors and he stepped into another lift. This one was smaller and would take him up a lot more levels in Sector 117. It shot up the Merovingian Conquest and the hitman was suddenly shown an even more breathtaking view of San Darkos’s rich skyline. Something buzzed in his ear.


“Hello there, mister Tyrone.” said a familiar, and beautiful voice.


“Hello there, XYZ.” He replied, his hands in the pockets of his dark coat. “You must be my runner for this job then.”


“It’s fate, we’re gonna be together for ever, baby.” she said with that Southern drawl that Tyron found oddly attractive.


“Very funny,” he smiled a little, “Do you have any information on the Retiree?” He pulled out his Jack and stared at the little box until it flickered to life with a 3D model of a woman; she was quite young with flowing hair. A smile was upon her face that seemed to send a slight shiver down Tyron’s spine. The model of Tussain span lightly.


“Madan Adrena Tussain, ex-wife of the Indai Kulla. She’s having a legal extra-marital loophole rendezvous contract with the very wealthy Duncan Saltine.”


“Duncan Saltine as in ‘The Duncan Saltine?’”


“As in, yes, the very Duncan Saltine responsible for the cleanliness of the upper level of sector hundred to two hundred rich and clean.”


“Let me guess. Saltine’s decided to end his contract.” The old architecture of the Merovingian Conquest, although being one of the oldest buildings in the in San Darkos, the architecture had remained strong and beautiful. It had stood the test of time. The lift came to a stop as it entered the eighty-seventh floor. The doors opened with a whoosh and Tyrone stepped out.


He walked through another hallway and scanned his Jack at the access panel. The huge wooden-like doors whooshed open and Tyron stepped into the Merovingian Suite. A roaring log fireplace was still quite strong. In the middle of the room there was a lowered level of carpeted stairs that lead to the fireplace, and to the left of it was the biggest viewing platform Tyron had even seen. This place overlooked not just San Darkos, but the lands beyond. This was a suite fitted for a king, thought Tyron as his eyes scanned over to the large red-velvetted bed, or a queen.


He slowly crept over to the large love-heart shaped bed and stared at the lump under the sheets that flickered in the firelight. Flowing red hair and beautiful red lips were the first things Tyron noticed. The woman seemed perfect even in sleep.


“Any particular reason Saltine submitted the contract?” whispered Tyron. His hand slipped into his dark coat and he pulled out his neutralizer. A D-50 Revolver with tranquilers. The green light flicked over to purple as Tyron pushed a button; she would die in her sleep peacefully. There was no need to blow her head apart. The tranquiled poison bullets would be humane. He aimed the D-50 towards the lump in the sh*ts.


“Yeah,” he prepared to fire, his finger lightly squeezed the trigger. “she’s pregnant.” What? No way. He lowered the D-50 and slowly walked away from the ever-so-quietly snoring Tussain, he stepped down the steps and in front of the fireplace.


“I can’t do that.”


“Come again, killer?” asked XYZ, clearly taken back.




“It is a legal thing? Cause you’ve got s EX-Four extermination license. You can legally lifeforms up to level four including?”


“Yeah, I know, including pregnant women. But I don’t do pregnant women.”


“Don’t be such a baby, you’ve got the contracts to kil-“


“I didn’t come this far ahead in this profession by listening to my runners, XYZ. Get one of the other buffs to do it. Baby-killing is wrong.”


“Alright, jeez, calm down.” Tyron stood by the fire and stared back out at San Darkos. He flicked off his comms and sighed. What a waste of time, what a f*cking nuisance. All this way up for nothing! For a baby’s death! How f*cking dare the Agency allow such work. He flicked his D-50 to it’s safety mode and stood for a moment in the silence of things. He didn’t notice Tussain staring at him with wide eyes, a plaided shirt on her curvy frame. She rubbed her eyes.


“Oh no!” she screamed as she ran for the door. She slammed the access-panel just as Tyron approached her with raised arms. An alarm suddenly rang out; Tyron covered his ears. The blaring drone died away and Tussain suddenly ran around the pillars of the room as Tyron lightly followed after her.


“Please don’t! I’m beggin’ you! Please!” she screamed out with a strong British accent.


“Ma’am I-“


“I have credits! Lots of them!” She slowly walked towards Tyron with her arms raised. The hitman, draped in a black tench-coat stared at her with his optic-lenses glinting in the firelight. “Please, oh god. I don’t want to die, I’m pregnant!”


“I’m not going to kill-“ Whoosh! The front doors opened and in stepped the three security guards from before. Tussain ran to the camp one, she landed in his arms and hugged him tightly. “Art, Art! He’s going to kill me!” Art, the camp guard lightly shoved Tussain off. The Chinese guard grabbed her as the rookie guard watched on with fear in his eyes. “Get off me, Chen!”


“What the f*ck, man? You were supposed to drill her and leave.” said Art with irritation. Tussain’s eyes shot to Art with a look of both fear and betrayal in them.


“She’s pregnant.” Replied Tyron quietly.


“So what!” said Chen, “You’ve got legal papers to do the girl,” Tussain wriggled and began to cry as Chen’s grip tightened on her small arms, her red hair covering most of her face now.


Tyron’s face changed now. He came forward, flicked the safety of his D-50 and walked to the door. “You think you can kill a pregnant woman, eh?” he slammed the D-50 into Chen’s chest; he grabbed it as Tussain wriggled free.


“You do it.” said Tyron with venom in his voice as he walked to the door.


“Hey man! Nobody’s blamin’ you for-“ Art’s voice was cut off as Tyron jumped into the lift back down to the lower levels. He removed his optics and stared out at San Darkos again, this time it’s beauty was unfounded. Tyron launched a fist at the glass, it remained unshattered. He sighed and felt something deep down inside. Was it remorse? Was he losing his edge? He’d stated at the start that he couldn't kill children. That was something that he hated about this world. The freedom to do what you wanted came with a price, it came with a signature and a piece of paper that said “You can do anything, but you damn sure better have the right contract.” – Rape, murder, prostitution. It was all the same. If you cut the red tape out of this world then there’d be uncontrolled chaos.


“I hate this job.” The lift slowed down as San Darkos flared up. More celebrations were beginning somewhere.


No amount of papers can ever justify taking killing a child, thought Tyron. Just because somebody puts something in writing, it doesn’t make it so. Why was he in this business? He didn’t know anymore. Once upon a time ago it was to make money, now, he didn’t need money. But just like contracts, signatures, and papers that should of helped him sleep at night, the money didn’t. The Red Tape didn’t inhibit humanity’s cruel nature- it only justified it.


Edited by Ziggy455

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MAY THE VOTING COMMENCE. No more Lycia - Bare stories, give each one a final read and then simply cast your vote.

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arch stanton

I vote Ziggy445.

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Damn. I really thought Typhus had this one in the bag, but my vote goes to Ziggy.


Two fine, fine stories that, while not without their flaws, illustrate the success of this idea as a whole. Kudos to orbital for his song choice, which has obviously inspired some really great stuff.

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Master of San Andreas

Ziggy you forget to update the first post.


My vote goes to Typhus inlove.gif

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Hell, I vote Typhus. His story was f*cking awesome, start to finish.


It's come to my attention that Typhus has deleted his story? Something must be up with him. confused.gif

Edited by Ziggy455

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Hell, I vote Typhus. His story was f*cking awesome, start to finish.


It's come to my attention that Typhus has deleted his story? Something must be up with him. confused.gif

He does seem to enjoy throwing temper tantrums like that often when anyone offers any criticism. confused.gif


In that case, I guess I'm going to vote Ziggy, since I'm interested in the song he's going to post next. All the stories were pretty good though, so don't feel like you haven't accomplished anything you other lot.

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Okay, well Typhus seems to believe he won't be returning here until...2023? dozingoff.gif


In that case I guess I won. tounge2.gif Although I really enjoyed Coat's, Master's and Orbital's stories too. In any case, here's the next song:






















Here's the real song. Let's take it to the South.

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user posted image Edited by AceRay

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Well, whatever, he's probably gone to jail for ten years for molesting his sister and doesn't want the attention brought up here. I always hated his passive aggressive bullsh*t. Good thing he won't be reading that until 10 years in the future.


And, curses! Ziggy, you stole my idea! Anyway, I'll get something written sometime, but really you should just give me the award right now, you now you can't beat this champ! sly.gif

I have a feeling...A disturbance in the force. He'll be back before 2023. I know it.


And you wanted to upload Freedom too? That's the point, upload a story, let's see if you can begin your reign of literature-based wit that will carry you on wings of smartassery to the Championship spot!



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Ha ha, naw, I meant posting Friday as a fake out song. Now I have to come up with some other gimmick for when I win!

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Ha ha, naw, I meant posting Friday as a fake out song. Now I have to come up with some other gimmick for when I win!

Ha. Ironically I have found a version of Friday which I have downloaded and listened to many times. If I win in the future- I WILL be using this for one of my songs. I warn you, this is deeply disturbing.



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Wow, you really put me through something there. I think I'm going to have trouble sleeping...

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That was really good story Ziggy. Reminded me a lot of Neuromancer. Had a very strong cyberpunk vibe to it. It annoys me a bit about Typhus leaving as he was one of my favorite people to interact with on this forum to be honest so I'll miss that. Whether he comes back or whether he isn't seen till 2023. Who Knows?. I wonder if this forum will even be around then. I wonder what I'll be doing in my life. I'll 29 in 2023. It boggles the mind slightly.


As for that Rebecca Black satanic reprise song... well that was something else. I never really liked Friday or any of the dubs or remixes that poked fun at it but I definitely like that Ziggy. It was just so dark and decadent. I was almost expecting some oily black liquid to come spewing out of there mouth. If you do win and choose that I'd love to write something to it.

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Master of San Andreas

You didn't add my name and story to the list Ziggy. angry.gif


Anyway if Typhus has really left the Forums,It's good news for me there'll be lesser competition. tounge.gif

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You didn't add my name and story to the list Ziggy. angry.gif


Anyway if Typhus has really left the Forums,It's good news for me there'll be lesser competition. tounge.gif

My bad, mate. I'll put you on the next one. colgate.gif

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This was probably more influenced by that Satanic Rebecca Black than Freedom, but I still think it holds up.


Ooooooh, Ooooooh


I lost my virginity when I was fourteen. I don’t remember her name, it was late and we were both wasted in the back of some kid’s out of control house party and I guess I thought I was ready to lose the big V. Vomit dribbled down her face as I stuck my pecker in and out of her rear end as she bent over the toilet bowl. It could have been worse; a few girls I knew who wouldn’t put out were dragged out to the bushes and had some scary stuff happen to them. So, I count my blessing where I can.


Sometimes I think about her though, when I’m alone in my cell and feeling depressed. She had long, black hair like my worst nightmare and her face was a disaster but her body was tight and the tight dress she was wearing revealed some nice curves around her front region. Sometimes I think about finding her and tracking her down but I can’t really do that for a few years without breaking a few laws and becoming an outlaw for removing her grave.


Today was a so-called ‘good’ day for me. I managed to paint a dragon on fire in art class and Dr Rosen said I was working great with the other patients. All the nurses are really friendly and we have a whole bunch of fun. They tell me I’m a great artist, complementing the colours and the original artwork. I usually draw wolves, roaming around in the darkness of the night with lots of black and white contrast. Dr Rosen even has some hung up in his office he’s so pleased with me.


The ‘bad’ days are probably more fun but nobody else thinks so. One time, I caught up with my friend Mitch in the toilets. He’s a cool guy, around nineteen years old with a banging mohawk, but he can get a little sarcastic. He said something mean to me as I used a bathroom, so I grabbed him and threw his face into the sink, sending teeth flying out of his mouth. As he covered the bleeding gap in his teeth, I threw him brilliantly into the glass then proceeded to shoved shattered pieces of broken mirror into his mouth until blood and saliva dribbled down his checks.


A couple of orderlies then came in and dragged me off Mitch, my arms flailing and my opponent coughing up blood. I didn’t think it was such a big deal but Dr Rosen was very disappointed in me. That was a week ago, so I’ve cooled down by now. Mostly I keep those thoughts inside my perfect mind, dreaming of my perfect days.


So as I look out my small window and look out over the fields of Memphis, I dream of the day I can get out. Escape from this prison in the middle night. Find out her name and find her tombstone and remake some memories, stabbing her limp, sweaty body as her blood drips onto the bathroom tiles…


That’s my dream.


That’s my freedom.

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The bus was cramped. Shoulder to shoulder was about forty people all crammed into the cold, disgraceful abode of the Stagecoach Bus. The windows next to Simon were scratched to sh*t from some keys. The torn fabric of Simon’s chair meant a spring was digging deep into his left buttcheek. He shifted but it only made it worse. Next to him sat Michonne; a red-headed, podgy, girl. She sighed as the bus rattled onwards into the day.


The stench of piss was always so strong on these buses. Why? Did people actually drop trou’ and take a leak on the seats? It wasn’t a good thought. Up ahead a familiar face stepped onto the bus as it came to a screeching stop. He noticed his eyes as they shot to Michonne faster than normal. Simon was just a f*cking eyesore; the grubby, badly-dressed anchor that was Michonne’s. John came forward.


“Holy sh*t, John, where you been all my life!?” said Michonne with a fake smile, she was a good actor. She’d been acting for the last three years, thought Simon.


“I’ve been around, y’know! Seeing some next girl,” he said sitting across from Michonne.


“Oh, really?” her eyes flashed, jealousy. Jealousy at what exactly, Simon didn’t know. He knew there was no girl! “Who’s the girl? Hmm?” poked Michonne playfully, some anger was coming through, that familiar frustration that she was sh*t at hiding.


“Christina,” said John as he rubbed his nose. It was time to initiate.


“Keegan’s old girl?” said Simon with a smile, his eyes staring at John.


“Just be quiet, Simon,” said Michonne as she nudged him. “Silly f*cker doesn’t know who Christina is.”


Wow, okay. This was gonna be much easier than he thought. Three years, Christ, what a way to finish them.




Simon walked through the hallways of Hartland Harris School with a smile on his face. There was no particular reason for it, he was just happy. He’d had a good sleep, life was easy in school. Half the time he cut through so much work the teachers just told him to wait around for other lessons. The sound of heels echoed down a long hallway, and high-pitched gasps followed them. Bang! Something came around the corner at a shocking speed! The blurry shape crashed into Simon; big brown eyes with tears coming down stared at him half-dazed.


“I’m sorry, I-“ said the red-headed girl.


“You alright?” replied Simon as he stared at the girl.


“No, I’m not f*cking alright, do I look alright?” she said as he adjusted her bag. She wiped her eyes and tapped a heel.


“Okay...What’s the matter?” asked Simon, he was genuinely concerned. He’d never seen this girl in the hallways before. She was a little short, and a little on the hefty side, but she had nice eyes. He liked them.


“My f*cking boyfriend,” she gasped and slapped her head lightly, “Friend. Old acquaintance! I don’t f*cking know!” fresh tears streamed down her face.


“What about him?”


“He’s cheating on me with two girls!”


“Well, that kinda sucks,” he replied. He wasn’t good at relationship sh*t.


“I gotta go-“ she said, her voice rising in inflection. She was gonna cry again. Simon was sure of that much. He turned and followed her.


“Hey!” he yelled!


“What?” she turned again ; wiping her eyes as she did so.


“You wanna get a coffee at the cafeteria?”


“With you?”


She remained silent for a moment. This was where Simon expected the scoff and the ‘f*ck no, creepo!’ but she gave half a smile.






Simon hated parks. He hated benches. He hated dogs, and he hated f*cking sitting in parks, on benches, near dogs. He had his arms wrapped around Michonne. The two locked in an embrace. It had only taken a coffee and a phone number. Two dates later and Simon felt like the man. He’d gotten a good-looking, sweet girl. She was kind and decent.


“So will you be my boyfriend?” she asked innocently.


“Sure,” he said with a smile.




The meal was set, the six month anniversary meal was a sight to see; Spaghetti that he’d cooked. Coke; the good kind not any of that bargain-cola crap. Roses and soft music. Everything was perfect. Simon had been waiting for over an hour for Michonne to get back from work. She worked at Pizza Hut and her shift ended at about six. He checked his watch; seven thirty. Something must have been up.


He reached into his pocket and dialled for D. He flicked his zippo out and relit the candles. The phone rang a few times.


“Hello,” said D.


“D! Have you seen Michonne since she left work?”


“Yeah, she was picked up by some blonde-haired dude,” Blonde hair? Only lad Simon knew with distinguishable blonde hair was John.


“Did he pick her up in a KA?”


“A blue one? Yeah,” he replied in that drone-like voice of his. It was definitely John now. He knew it f*cking was.


“That’s her ex.”


“sh*t, you thinkin’ something’s up?” his voice sounded more alert now.


“Maybe...I’ll call you later, mate, thanks for looking out.”


“Not a problem.” Click.


He sighed and blew out the candles. The spaghetti was cold now, and he knew she’d make up some bullsh*t excuse that justified her actions. She always did.




Simon’s car was a beautiful thing to see. His parents had bought him it for his 18th birthday. He loved it; the fresh car smell was something he wished would never go away. As he sat in it and strummed his fingers on the wheel, he felt happy, happier than he had for a long time.


“So, you gonna talk to your stepsister?” asked Michonne, sat in the passenger seat.


“About what?” asked Simon, staring forward.


“About how she makes you feel uncomfortable with how close she is to you?”


“I’m not uncomfortable with that, you are!” said Simon, craning his neck to the left.


Michonne crossed her arms like a spoilt child and gave out a huff. The glare of the Pizza Hut sign reflected on the window, inside, D was cooking away. Simon could make him out as a blurry black shape. He was glad Michonne had never clocked on that the two had become friends; it was a good piece of freedom now that she told him who he could see and whatnot.


“Fine, then I’ll just let that closeness eat me up shall I? I’ll just be quiet and I’ll let you f*cking be best friends with her, shall I?” she had that kind of mood on her where she didn’t care how vulgar or angry she seemed, she was going to win.


“No, I don’t want that,” replied Simon with a sigh.




This f*cking dirty house, thought Simon. This f*cking cat-infested house is going to kill me! And he truly believed that. The floor was covered in cat hair. Michonne’s fat sister Gemima had asked for Michonne to babysit, and Simon didn’t mind that. What he did mind was stepping in cat sh*t and dying from tetanus. Michonne was in the dirty kitchen, on the phone to John, or so Simon had guessed.

His fingers flicked the remote over a few channels. American Pie Beta House was on. Not a bad film, but not a goodie either, he thought. He watched as a bunch of college girls began to undress to loud music as a bunch of characters danced. The movie was like a low-grade Girls Gone Wild flick anyway.


“What the f*ck?” screamed Michonne as she ran in. She snatched the remote away with a violent tug and flicked the channel over. She sat down next to Simon and lightly pushed him.


“You know how I feel about you watching that kind of stuff!” she said with genuine concern in her voice. Simon rolled his eyes, he wasn’t in the mood for another Michonne bitch-fit.


“I was just watching a film,” he mumbled.


“Am I not attractive enough for you? You’ve got me! Why do you need other f*cking girls!?” she yelled.


Simon sighed. “Let’s just watch what you want,” he said as he crossed his arms and prepared for another night of subtle hints and bullsh*t.




The bowling alley was always full on a Friday night. Simon remembered coming here with his old friends, the ones he had before Michonne had decided they weren’t right for him. He took his bowl and laughed as a blonde-haired girl threw hers in unison. Her bright blue eyes flickered at him seductively but he didn’t notice them. He was too wrapped up in Michonne as she yelled at him.


The stench of stale beer filled the air. The sound of skittles being bashed filled Simon’s ears as he sat down and let Michonne take her throw. She had gotten fatter, that much was true at least. The blonde-haired girl with the blue eyes screamed in happiness as she scored a strike. The fuzzy screen of the bowling lane flickered to life with some sh*tty strike animation. Simon stared at the animation, his head craned to the right.


“Watch out!” screamed the blonde-haired girl at Simon. Snapping out of his daydream, he heard the words just in time. He dived out of the way as a bowling ball came crashing down onto the chair with a loud thud that out-screamed even the sound of the music that played throughout the large alley.


“Jesus Christ!” yelled someone in the crowd as Simon stood up and dusted himself off. Michonne was running to the toilets now, and he knew he’d have to go and see what was wrong. He walked away from the crowd of people who were asking if he was okay. He entered the toilets; Michonne had her palms on the side, tears were running down her face.




“STOP STARING AT THAT f*ckING SLUT NEXT TO US!” she screamed as loud as possible. Simon slammed the door and lunged forward.


“I WASN’T STARING AT ANYONE. SHE’S BEEN STARING AT ME THE WHOLE f*ckING NIGHT!” he screamed back, fed-up of being embarrassed in public.


“YOU WANT HER, YOU f*ckING PIG. GO GET HER!” she screamed as she pushed him out of the way. He let her go and stood still for a few moments. A deep scream echoed throughout the alley; the manager even heard it from his office.




Simon’s room was trashed. The black and blue walls were smeared with pen and smudge-marks. His TV, his thirty inch LCD screen had been punched. His desk was broken; his laptop was snapped in two. His wardrobe doors were hanging off their hinges. On the bed sat Michonne; her cheeks red, her breath heavy. Her hands were covered in splinters and cuts. Stood in the corner by the wardrobe was Simon, a cut on his forehead began to seep down into his eye, stinging it.


“I’m sorry I’m like this,” she said as she put her head in her hands. “John made me like this...I can’t be normal. He’s f*cked my head up,” she continued to sob. “He’s ruined me as a person!” she screamed, and for the first time, Simon understood the craziness of it all. He understood why Michonne was so f*cking mental. He sat on the bed and put an arm around her.


“You need help, Michonne,” he said as he stroked her hair.


“Please don’t leave me, Simon, I love you!” She said as she hugged him back.




“We’re not saying leave her, Simon!” said Jessica. “I’m your mother! I know what’s best for you!”


Simon was sat in his living room. He rubbed his eyes and yawned.


“Your mother’s right, mate! She’s not worth losing your future over,” chimed in Pete. He was mother’s new partner.


Simon stood up and sighed. He walked to the door and look at his parents. “I love her.” He said before stepping out of the door.




“Here, I got you something,” said Simon as he handed Michonne a wrapped gift. She tore away the paper as quick as lightning and opened the box. Inside, the glint of a golden necklace shone in the light. The word FOREVER written in stylish letters was hung in the middle of the chain.


“Thanks,” said Michonne as she put it back in the box, uninterested.


Simon didn’t tell her he’d sold his car to pay for the chain and the holiday he was planning on taking with her.



Simon was on a bus. He hated buses. They always stunk of piss, and he always wondered about why they stunk, every single time he was on one of them. Since he’d sold his car, this was the only way he was getting around. He sighed and stared out at the barrage of buildings that passed him as he waited to get home. His phone vibrated in his pocket. He yanked it out and hit the green key.


“Hi,” he said.


“Mate, I’ve just seen Michonne with John again.”


“What do you mean?”


“She’s at meet-up at the Pizza Hut; she’s with him in his KA. They’re hugging and holding hands and sh*t.” Simon had never heard his voice like this.


“She’s kissing him?”


That was it. Just like a broken record in his mind that had played over and over, the vinyl disc had finally cracked off the recorder altogether and a weight was suddenly lifted.


“Do me a favour.”


“Anything, man.” Replied D.


“Come to her house now while she’s a work, help me pick all my sh*t up. Then meet me at Toshbrow Street tomorrow at twelve. I’ll run you through things.”


“Alright, mate, on my way.”


“Oi, Marv!” yelled Simon as he hung up.




“You running the bus routes tomorrow?”








“Anyway, I’m going down the car-meet tonight, was wonderin’ if you wanted to come?” asked John to Michonne. The bus rattled louder and then came to a screeching halt. “f*cking cockhead-driver!”


Michonne giggled like a little girl. “Anyway, your boy cools with you comin’ out tonight?” asked John, knowing full well Simon didn’t control her any more than a hoe did a pimp.


“Yeah, he’ll be fine with it.”


“Ladies and gentlemen, slight delay – I’ll get right on it!” yelled Marv as he flicked the doors open.


Michonne nudged Simon and John followed as they walked down the bus. “Anyways, yeah, it’ll be cool riding yo- I mean riding with you,” said John with a smirk. Michonne looked at him with wide eyes and that was all Simon needed.


“Hey John,” said Simon.


“What m-“ Simon had never punched with such precise coordination. His balled up fist collided with John’s jaw mid-sentence. A deafening crack echoed on the bus. He fell backwards with such a force that the bus rocked for a moment, or at least Simon thought it did. In a flash Michonne turned and had her arms on John who was unconscious. The punch had been a one in a million flash that had burned to the core.




Simon booted Michonne to the floor as hard as possible. He bent down as blood began to pour from John’s nose. “Be quiet, now, you’ve said enough, Boo.”


Onlookers began to murmur together. About forty people of all ages; some people his own age watched in awe as he stood up. The old people at the front all had wide eyes; he had an audience.


“Ladies and gentlemen of the bus, I want you to all take a good look at this girl right here,” he said; pushing her head violently. “You see, this girl, this f*cking c*nt I’ve been in a relationship with for three years,” Michonne was focusing on John now; a pool of blood had formed from his nose onto the grubby, piss-stained, glinting floor of the bus. “-she’s been sleeping behind my back with the very man that cheated on her so many years ago!” he yelled.


“SIMON! YOU f*ckING c*nt!” Another swift kick silenced Michonne.


“If you yell at me one more time, I’m going to kill you,” he said with such ferocity that Michonne dared not look back up at him. Simon smiled, in her head she must have been wondering ‘who was this Simon?’


“For three looooong years, I’ve been with her. Three years of ‘I’m in charge, don’t look there, wear this, she’s a slut, don’t be friends with her. You’re just like the rest, wah wah wah.” He pretended to wipe his eyes as he mocked her.


“Get off this bus!” screamed an old lady as she rose her walking sticks


“I will in time, ma’am, I will in time.” He said with a nod, “Marv, keep the doors locked.”




“So you see, people, this girl has been in control of every aspect of my life from my friends, to my preferences for three extremely long years. She told me what to do, what to eat, what to drink, who to associate with!” he spat on John who began to stir, his jaw mangled.


“That’s over a thousand days. Not to forget the meals, the cash, and the unrequited love that came in bundles. Not only did I remain faithful to this girl, but she was just too selfish to realize it. Because while I was cooking her food, taking her out for romantic meals, and treating her like a princess – She was out, f*cking the very man who took her virginity and f*cked two of her best friends.”


Gasps of shocked rang out in the bus. Eyes shot to Michonne. Simon smiled harder. These people were beginning to see the justice in his words and actions. The old lady with grey curly hair lowered her sticks and prodded silent Michonne with one.


“You should be ashamed of yourself, girl!” said the woman with the nudge.


“I can’t help who I love,” she whispered as tears began to roll down her face.



Simon began to circle Michonne.


“And what do I have to show for it? Look at me!” he tugged at his grubby cardigan like top, “f*cking dressing like a tramp everyday because I’ve got no confidence!”


A well dressed youth lowered his headphones and snapped his fingers. “The f*ck didn’t you spark mans out earlier then?”


“Because love does stupid f*cking things to you.”


“Safe, safe, I get you,” said the youth with a nod.


“Because of this bitch, I’ve lost all my friends, my family, and don’t get me started on the f*cking car!”


The bus erupted into murmurs of disdain. A few people nudged Michonne who remained staring at the floor in shame, hopefully, thought Simon. He slowly raised his arms.


“Look at me,” he said with gritted teeth as he looked down.


“No,” for the first time in three years, she was f*cking quiet.


“I said look at me.”


“Look at the f*cking guy, bitch,” yelled a construction worker.


Those familiar brown eyes with tears running down them looked up.


“In the name of all that is free, I claim myself to freedom, not you. You get that? We’re over, Michonne.”


Already her face had begin to twist and contort. She couldn’t lose him. Even though she didn’t want Simon, that familiar gut feeling of losing began to take form.




“Freedom from the fat c*nt,” Simon began to chant. “Freedom from the fat c*nt, freedom from the fat c*nt. FREEDOM FROM THE FAT c*nt.”


Suddenly the youth stood up and began to chant with Simon, the construction worker chimed in too, and then so did the old ladies. Soon enough the entire bus had erupted into the chant of “FREEDOM FROM THE FAT c*nt.”


Simon continued to chant, Michonne’s head shot around. She couldn’t believe this. Simon walked to the doors and bowed to Marv.


“Ladies and gentlemen, thankyou for witnessing my freedom!” the chants continued and Simon took his final bow to the audience before jumping off the bus. He laughed as he left and like rust off an old engine, the familiar sound of laughter he had not done for years echoed down the street, it echoed up back to the bus as the sound of an ambulance began to play.


Simon turned another corner and in view was D, the muscled, dark-skinned man was perched next to his car.


“What’d you do?” he said as he flicked the locks on his car, dropping a newspaper.


“Nothing short of an assault charge,” he said speedily before jumping in the car, “Come on, let’s go!” He hadn’t felt this alive in years! D dived in the driver’s seat and a second later, the car was speeding down the street; purring like a cat.


“Did Marv disable the CCTV?”


Simon looked out of the window and laughed. He laughed so hard his sides began to hurt, and his throat began to burn as he shook with laughter that was infectious because a few seconds later D was in tears too.




The bowling alley hadn’t changed in a year. The fuzzy screens were still the same, the neon lighting against faded woodwork continued to flash. The stench of beer was still the same, but a new blonde-haired girl eyed Simon from the bar. A year of freedom had done wonders, his health had returned. He was in shape, he was going to college. His mind wasn’t weighed down anymore.


“My round!” said Kayla, as D slapped her behind playfully.


“Dickhead,” she said with a smile as she ran off to help Marcus and Jon with drinks.


“Anyway, did you hear about Michonne?”


“Not since the inquiries, no,” replied Simon as he took another sip.


“She’s pregnant now,” replied D. Simon raised his eyebrows for a second and then took another sip.


“Good for her,” he said with a smile.


“She’s living in some sh*tty council flat too I heard, times are tough for her, depression too.” Simon nodded along as he listened. He felt like a wise man hearing the same tale for the thousandth time.


D noted this. He raised his bud. “To escaping bitches.”


“To gaining freedom,” Simon chuckled and laughed as his friends returned with more drinks.

Edited by Ziggy455

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This died quicker than a diabetic in a sugar factory.


Either way, let's try this f*cked up song for a kick-start!



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OMG, where did this topic come from? I never noticed this lol

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Anybody wanna give this one a go? I'll throw up a story in a few hours to accommodate it.

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Mokrie Dela

I have to say I prefer the Pixies and Placebo versions....




Harry had always been a joy to be around. Julie sat, holding his hand, as his eyes fixed on her face. There was recognition in the deep blue seas of his irises, but little else. He sat in the same wheelchair, moving only when the nurses shifted him to and from his bed.

Harry liked being outside, with the birds and the nature sounds. The hospice was by the river, with a long lawn rolling down the slightest slope. In the winter the lower lawn flooded as the river overflowed, but in the summer it flourished. Julie picked a yellow flower and laid it on Harry's lap.

"Daffodils, like Granny had..."

Harry's eyes traced the yellow flower and, for a second, Julie thought she saw a smile. She didn't of course. Harry had no control over his muscles. He even had to wear a nappy to prevent him soiling himself.

But his eyes lived. He had long lost the ability to talk - not from motor failure, but he'd simply forgotten how. His mind was going backwards in life, unlearning. It was not a physical illness, but a mental one.


Julie fished out the Telegraph and unfolded it on her lap like a huge map. The crossword always challenged her, but her grandad would have it done in an hour or two. He often sent off, for the offered prize, and had won twice. His room was filled with books and crossword magazines, soduku books, even though he had no use for them.

"Fourteenth century.." Julie didn't read the whole clue out. "How did you ever know this stuff?" She shook her head, placing the paper on Harry's lap. She began reading out the clues. Although he couldn't answer, she hoped his mind would. It was a futile dream though. Before he'd lost the ability to speak, his words had become muddled. He lost the ability to pronounce letters and ultimately didn't understand the meanings of words.

"Granddad, did you want a cup of tea?" She'd asked.

He'd just stared at her, his mouth open to answer, but the words hadn't escaped. He stumbled to form the sounds, but couldn't.

"Yes?" She asked, nodding, holding up the kettle. "No?" She hid the kettle behind her back, shaking her head. He had just stared, confused. After a moment he'd pointed weakly at the kettle when she'd unhidden it. She turned and immediately he moaned.

"What's wrong?"

He was looking around, his hands trying to describe the kettle. When he saw it again, he smiled, a flat, haunting flat pressing of the lips. He pointed and mouthed an inaudible word. He meant "yes," though he no longer knew the word for it.


"You remember our holiday in ninety-eight?"

Harry's eyes snapped to her. She silently prayed he could understand her, but the reality was he was hearing only noise. She may as well be speaking Russian to him, because, as the nurses told her, he would not understand much.

She refused to believe that. Inside was the man she'd known - the man that had known the answer to every question, even the most obscure. Julie had always looked forward to her childhood visits, and always popped in after school, doubly so after Priscilla, her gran, had passed. She saw him everyday, after school, and at weekends he'd join her family for Sunday lunch.

"We went to Jamaica?" He had to remember, surely... "You remember that beach?" She smiled, but Harry's face remained motionless. His expression had not changed in almost two years. "You discovered reggae music - the slower kind. What was it called?" She shrugged. Harry like Jazz and contemporary music, but Reggae had been a new thing for him. He didn't like Bob Marley - too fast - but the music he enjoyed was good. "There was that man on the beach, with the guitar singing reggae." Still no response.

Please talk to me, Julie almost said. She reached out and touched Harry's hand. "Do you remember the song?"

His eyes moved toward the source of sound, but she saw no comprehension in them.

"Open up the clouds, show the sky on high,

There's no time for rain, in my day.

Good morning sun, kiss my wanting skin,

Help me take the joy in.


Oh my jewel, my shining star,

Every day you warm my heart,

Oh what blessed lives we live,

even when things are hard."


Still his face didn't change. Julie wanted to shout outloud, to scream: 'Talk to me!]/i] It broke her heart, that this man was not her granddad - only by blood.

"Let's just enjoy the day," she said, unable to keep talking. He was in there somewhere, dormant. Despite what the nurses said, he was there. His eyes saw her, and he recognized her! He knew she was here. He had to understand the words, surely, and if he didn't, then he had enough of his mind left to know who she was. She saw his eyes light up when she entered the room - everyday, at lunchtime, breakfast or teatime; before, after or in between lectures at Oxford University. She had inherited some of his smarts, and was studying linguistics, at the same University that Harry had met Priscilla, and successfully wooed her by reciting a poem from memory.


Finally it was time to leave, another moment that tore her heart from her chest. His day was spent confused. He didn't know where he was, or indeed who he was. He remembered Priscilla, and he knew Julie. That was it. When she was not here, he was dazed.

"Come back to me," she whispered with no small degree of futility. In his eyes she saw a flash of sadness as she turned to leave. She'd be back tomorrow, though, just to being a little bit of sunshine into his life - no, existance. That was no life. Even if he didn't know what was going on, or understand the words, she knew he liked her company, the sound of her voice.


Worse still; she knew the moment that was coming, be it in a day or year. The person closest to her in the world would inevitably be underground. His condition wasn't improving, after all.

At least he'd be buried with his wife, she told herself. Perhaps then - as he believed so strongly - he'd be reunited with his love and with his mind.

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The faint buzz of the helicopter above added more strength to the wind that was strong, nine hundred feet up from the floor below. The police had people crammed in the doorways, raising their arms to stem the amount of curious eyes, of co-workers, of perhaps Michael’s wife.


With his crème suit sagging, dirty and torn, he stared out at the risen architectural wonders, but no amazement was felt. “So come on, buddy, how about it?”


“No,” he replied, his briefcase handle sweaty in his hand. He threw off his glasses and they disappeared below, a faint gasp followed from the few watching. I can just see my ugly mug right on CNN right now, he thought as he waved to the chopper. “Michael, Michael buddy, step away from there, alright? We can discuss this.”


“Nothing to discuss anymore,” he mumbled, running his free hand through his short, grey hair. He hadn’t felt this tired before, and most certainly the rush of adrenaline that he felt at the start had succumbed to a faint buzz now. “Your wife says she’s on the way, you can wait can’t you?” the unhygienic negotiator said. Michael had already forgotten his name. He’d let the screaming voices of the onlookers and police fade away as a gentle rhythm played in his head. Time slowed down.


He slowly turned to face the doorway, crammed with people, and through the cracks came Marcia, her hair clumpy and ragged. Some would deduce from stress, but Michael knew the real reason. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” she screamed silently at him. He smiled back, raised both of his hands, flicking his middle fingers to her and jumping backwards. The negotiator lunged forward for a grip but it was too late.


Slowly, he closed his eyes and fell back, the gust of the helicopter lightly dabbing his face. As he fell, he thought back to the first time they had met. As seconds stirred to hours, within little moments, he smiled. It’s a boy! Congratulations! Michael, we’re so happy together.


“I’m afraid she’s pregnant,” a thick hand grabbed Michael’s young neck, clenched teeth and the corrosive stench of beer filled his nostrils as he sat on the dirty, rugged couch. “You’re gonna marry her or I’ll f*ckin’ slot ya, boy.”


“I’m sorry, but I love Marcia,” he had turned and said to her, as they stood under the same tree they had once spent magical days together. She stood, brightly blue-eyes, with tears forming. The faint wind blew her long blonde hair across her face as she trembled. “So that’s it, is it?”


“I’m—I’m sorry.”


He fell faster now, the smile on his wider.


“YOU ARROGANT f*ck. How dare you—How DARE YOU!” screamed Marcia, “You come home when I say you come home! Your little boy needs you! I’m going out—“


What made him smile was the fact that he’d sent off the papers. $550,000 dollars and a note for her, the phone-call afterwards would explain it all. Yes, this is Tabitha, why—No. I have. Yes, Michael? Oh my God. When—How? Y…You mean he’s…?

Halfway down now.


Here it comes, sooner than later!


He listened down the phone in his cubicle: “Alright, I’ve got ten. You wanna do it?” said the familiar voice of Dean, the same one who had grown up with Michael: the same snake that had been best man at his wedding. Had given the rings, had danced with Marcia and been through thick and thin.


“That was fantastic!” yelled Marcia.


Below, Dean saw the shape falling down, but it was too fast to see. As he stared up from his text: ‘looking forward to later. X wink.gif’ he flinched as something crashing down. Blood sprayed everywhere as the crème suit suddenly turned a darker shade of crimson. The head exploded along with most of the body. Dean looked down, and let out a deafening scream as confusion seeped into his brain like blood into the suit below. A scream that reached down from the gut all the way up to his mouth. He shook violently and wiped blood away, his eyes wide with a feverent mix of fear and shock. Aha. AHAAAAA. ARGHHHHH.

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