Write something now

Okeee Dokeee!

This one, instead of the best thing you've ever written, is written right here for this thread. You can work on it all you want in Starbucks or when you're trying to get to sleep... but it's gotta be new and its gotta be typed here, before anywhere else.
 
I bit my tongue in my sleep Friday night. Maybe early Saturday morning; how would I know? I didn't bite part of it off or anything, but I awoke Saturday morning with a pretty damaged tongue. It bled.

I thought that our brains were supposed to protect us from that sort of thing -- like falling out of bed! My wife's friend is a psychiatric nurse. She told me that severe nocturnal tongue biting is one of the things most tightly correlated with the onset of certain types of schizophrenia. Here's what I said:

"Finally, something to look forward to."

And meant it.
 
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Ak, from the Bank tribe flew in a long spiraling curve from the heights of the bank building. He had heard a screech on the black road and was curious to see if it had produced breakfast. He came in fast and low over the road to the crossing and saw near the center a crumple form. Ah, nut eater, tree climber, chatterer. Much better than the night skulker, faker of death.

As he circled back for a landing, Skree'ak, a scout for the Clock Tower tribe flashed past, a black blur. Skree'ak pounced and pecked, crying his glee between mouthfuls.

"Mine!", said Ak.
"Mine!" replied Skree'ak, "Early bird gets the worm."
"You followed" said Ak.
"Yes, I followed", said Skree'ak "Share?"
"OK, I'll share. Where is Krench? I haven't seen him in a long time.", said Ak
"Gone" Skree'ak cackled, "Gone, maybe dead. Many have died. More die."
"Yes. In our tribe too. Little seed eaters die. Fish eaters, and the Many-ones too. Even them." Said Ak.
"Soon Cold comes. No young. We will die. Why does this happen?" said Skree'ak.
"Don't know. Time to go, loud one comes." Said Ak.

A loud one came and smashed the nut eater under itself.
 
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Want biscuit.
You just had a biscuit.
Want biscuit.
No, you want *another* biscuit.
No, no want nother, want biscuit.
Be quiet, I'm trying to write here.
Mad? Mad? Good dog.
Yes, yes, I know you're good, it's okay.
No mad, good dog.
No, I'm not mad, yes you are good, but you have to be quiet. I can't think while you're talking.
No mad?
Not mad.
Want kiss.
Okay, there ya go, okay, now lie down and be good, be quiet, okay?
Okay. Good dog?
Good dog.
Whumph.......grrrmmrowlll.....*sigh*.....want biscuit.
 
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Excellent, Stripes!

And Doggo!

This is gonna be great!
 
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Just off the plane. Twenty-two hours from Singapore. Somewhere in another dimension I'm still sitting in 57A, knees aching and guts churning as I wonder how long I can go before waking up the sleeping woman beside me so that I can make my way to the bathroom.
Walking to the office I pass The Hole, where once was the Borders where I ate lunch and passed time book browsing.
A man sings God Bless America with hand on heart as I pass him next to the chain link fence that surrounds the site. He falters and I pipe in with: "and the valleys" as I look up at the sign displaying 9-11 Heroes. They are heroes because they died? Sure there were heroes there but isn't it worse that most were just people going about their lives? That they weren't larger than life, just life-sized?
I note that Brooks Brothers is still there. Watching it on TV, I felt the whole thing hit home when someone said they were using Brooks Brothers as a temporary morgue. My best suit came from that store.
Pieces of stairway and chunks of girder still dot the site but the impression is one of space where none is expected.
My first trip to New York was a week after the first WTC bombing. As the bus from Newark passed a building scorched and scarred for seven stories or so, I realized this was the place where a bomb had gone off. Weighing it up, that was more of a shock than what I saw this morning. This time, I see what I expect to see -- nothing.
 
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Suddenly, Charles was in love. Very suddenly. He'd met this girl two hours ago and now as they kissed it seemed they were only learning to kiss as a new hatch learns to fly. And it was more like flying than kissing. You could read minds through this warm kiss. Somehow there was no doubt what the other felt -- her name was Sarah and she seemed a Sarah and there was no other life in the universe except Sarah. Sarah had brown eyes. Sarah smelled of coconut, like a fourteen year-old girl's tanning oil, but Sarah was twenty-eight. Two hours.

Charles felt Sarah's fingernails brush the back of his neck as they ended the kiss. He had trouble opening his eyes, as if they weren't ready to give up the kiss. Only the promise to again look at Sarah brought them slowly open. Sarah was getting something out of her purse. A PDA.

"I've just installed an execution module at the base of your brainstem. Charles Gaines, you stand accused of Pod Blocking under Chapter 9.22 of The Professor's conduct code. I'm linking to Tantric Sector One Court now. I'm obliged by the court to inform you that your death will be painless and that your remains will be handled with dignity."

How could this be Sarah? Where did my world go?

"What? But you... you... I love you. I'm innocent. Please don't kill me. Why do you joke like this?"

Sarah's expression had changed completely. She now looked at Charles as if she were a civil servant and he were applying for a trash permit.

"No joke, Mr. Gaines. I assure you. Pod Blocking is a very serious offense. You knew that... whaaaaa... what's that..."

Sarah's right hand, operating the PDA, became translucent. She could see right through her goddamned hand!

"What's happening?"

Charles saw it too, but he hadn't yet understood the events of the last 40 seconds since they were kissing. Since they were in love. He certainly didn't understand this. Then it happened again, only this time instead of just a part of Sarah disolving, the whole scene faded. It didn't become transparent, because there seemed nothing to see-through to. The area just lost contrast. Then, it came back to full view.

Charles got it now.

"Okay, I get it. This is a dream. You're a dream and now I'm waking up." He laughed a little.

Sarah watched her body fade again.

"A dream? No wait, you bastard! I'm a real person. I've lived twenty-eight years. I have a Mother and a Father and two older Brothers! I went to university and I've got an advanced degree. Every Friday, I meet friends at a pub for drinks and I've been meeting those same friends every Friday for years. Way before I even knew you existed! That's a lot of trouble to go through just to be part of your dream! No way!"

Charles savored the pure, thick revenge of the moment. He'd loved this woman!

"Well, get used to the idea because you're going away now. You're no more! I'm waking up."

Sarah saw that it was true. She was going fast.

"Please... aahhhhhhhhhhhh..."

She was gone.

Charles sat up in bed. What a fuckedup dream. But that felt good. God he'd loved her. Why can't I have a kiss like that? He looked around his bedroom.

"Pod Blocking? What the fuck is Pod Blocking?"

In the dream, he seemed to know what Pod Blocking was. It had made some sense. He'd known he was innocent of it, but he did understand the charge.

"....ummmmmm.... Honey?"

His wife, beside him in bed. She had blue eyes. Her name was Karen. He bent and kissed her cheek. He got up out of bed and headed for the bathroom to shower. Golf this morning.

On his way to the bathroom, he stopped. Charles turned and looked at his wife, sleeping again now, for the first time in nine years of being married to her -- with just a tint of suspicion.
 
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Come on. Write something!

If we can't read a new William Gibson novel right now, something written by his most avid readers might be the next best thing.

I looked through all the new fiction available at Borders yesterday evening. What crap. Ended up buying a new pocket dictionary. That's like going to a bordello to get a Coke from their pop machine.
 
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It's summer in Kansas. This means heat. Soemtimes dry, sometimes wet, but always there. You step outside and it wraps around you like a gymnastic lover, touching every inch of you in a moment. And just like a good session with a lover, you break a sweat. Everyone is hot and tired, and the whole world is bleached out blue from the glare of the sun. This was when I met Dot.

I still refuse to call her Dorothy. I never liked that name. To many Oz jokes maybe. Besides, she was just Dot. Petite, blond, with anime girl eyes. Definitley not the type I usually go for, but I was hooked from the first moment.

She seemed to find me amusing I think. It was odd being with her. Like there was some joke at my expense that only she knew. It was really unnerving. This constant dance of wills, figuring out where I stood on a constantly shifting plane, with no markers and unable to stand still.

"It is a good viewpoint to see the world as a dream. When you have something like a nightmare, upon waking, you will tell yourself that it is only a dream. It is said the world we live in is not a bit different than this." - Yamamoto Tsunemoto
 
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Something.
 
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MAN!

THAT was something!
 
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ME: Like my Daddy told Me, Son, if you must marry, marry Kirsten Dunst.

MY SON: Dad, I'd marry lots of other girls before Kirsten Dunst.

ME: Are you gay? Look at them titties!

MY SON: She's older than I am. Like four years older.

ME: Did you see her in INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE? You should have married her then!
 
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Zerek fell into a sort of trance as his instincts took over. He was skimming along in a remodeled cruiser on his way back from California after taking a much needed vacation. Even if he drove his parents nuts showing up for dinner unannounced, he really didn't give a shit.

The sky was a gradient of silver dimming quickly to black. The horizon looked as if it would devour him. The lighting created a strobe-light effect in the cab. Shadows danced in chaos. Bending pillars of electricity skipped across the horizon seeming to thread the blanket of clouds closer to the hard desert ground.

The steamy smell of cool rain massaging the hot greasy road below penetrated the air conditioner and filled the cab. Zerek pushed a button on the steering wheel, and gently pulled back. The sound of wet tires grinding asphalt was replaced by the quiet hum of the hydrogen fuel tanks pushing him up off the ground.

He punched in the coordinates, selected some appropriate music, and leaned back in his seat. It'd be four hours until he was home in Cleveland. For the first time in months, his mind was cleansed of all the stress that his job had dirtied it with. Right now, it seemed, the future was an empty journal.

Maybe he would resign when he got back into the office on Monday.
 
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At a Manhattan Cocktail Party

"Sooo...you folks are Lakota, huh? How long you been in New York? Oh...I'm Bernie."

"Born here. My wife, too. I am called Uses The Wrong Fork."

"You don't say....Is that your wife over there? The taller one?"

"Yes. That is my wife, Stands In A Mink."

"Yowza! You can't possibly have any kids?"

"Three. I have a....here, from left to right: Spoiled By His Grandparents, Whines For The Bimmer, and Britney."

"Britney??"

"She's...we wanted her to...you know."

"Oh. Yeah."
 
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That is a total crackup!

Trogdor, if you keep on about Kirsten Dunst that way to your son, you will drive him to homosexuality, even if he never considered it before. Good grief, man!
 
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bass filled the room like a slow smoke cloud. my heart shaking in its cage as it dominated everything else for that moment. i check my ear plugs are in well enough. and just then the sound turns to layers of noise. i look back to the japanese girl standing in front of me, i've seen her so many times before, but this is the first time we have spoken. so to speak. her fingers flicker, tracing complex motions and symbols. conscious of the tattoo on her wrist with each motion, conscious of it's connotations, and the affiliations it stands for. she is not part of my organisation, but we have an understanding.

"you got the disc and passed it on?" her fingers ask.
"yeah" i sign back, "gabriel got it, he know's what to do"
she nods at that. a tight smile playing across her lips, a response to a small success.

she flicks her head, glancing around the club to make sure we aren't drawing too much attention. the flames licks through the dark strands flashing with the motion. she turns back, her dark eyes pools that absorb the strobing pulses from the dance floor like a black hole. her t-shirt is black and sheer, sleeveless, blending straight into the tight trousers she is wearing. neither have pockets, to cope with this she has a pouch strapped round her upper arm, into which she is reaching now. her hand comes forward with the disk that she has removed from there. an MD, orange plastic, in a clear case. i take it from her. i slide it into the pocket on the inside of my jacket.

"you know what to do next?" her fingers flicker, touches against each other and off her palm.
"decode, and extend" with the left hand, "pass on to next member" with the right.
"who is next member?" she asks, and i know its a trick question.
"whoever the signs say" is my reply.

she seems happy with that. rests her hand on mine for a moment, looks into my eyes, then turns and leaves me standing there. i finish my drink now that she has gone. give her time to get out the building, and then i leave as well. checking the weight of the disc in my pocket.

PTR

it's a re:mote world after all
 
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~~~ Trogdor, if you keep on about Kirsten Dunst that way to your son, you will drive him to homosexuality ~~~

I was just trying to get him to aim high, like writers do. You never hear of writers dumping their pre-rich-and-famous wives for a new one once they've made it (ala many many actors). Writers marry way above themselves BEFORE they're rich and famous.

Mean Old Man, in college, they called me "Dances With Pigs".

not really
 
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"Writers marry way above themselves BEFORE they're rich and famous."

Tell that one to Arthur Miller.
 
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Or Hemingway! You got me. I did say "never".

Definitely not a rule, is it?
 
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I finally found my cat, in the haystack. It lay in a small hollow, head propped at an awkward angle. Eyes of glass.

I sat down.

Jane Russell, in the hay.

Hollywood trumps trauma.

---
Made from an extremely authentic tough shiny blue nylon, every detail is matched to the original spec. The real mouton sheepskin collar is just sumptuous, and their reproduction of the Crown zipper is stunning.
 
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WOW.
 
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Dijini was watching TV.

"Randy, you seen these weather reports lately?"

"Yeah. It's getting worse."

On the television screen, a local weathercaster was pointing to a northern frontal line stretching from Northern California to North Dakota.

"And this cold front is accompanied by a B19 Green Wave. So, all you folks in Salt Lake City should prepare for the giant slugs and should get those muzzles out before your dogs start talking. Further South, the high pressure, shimmering translucence that has been holding so long over New Mexico seems to be slowly moving East. I don't know if anybody's left alive down there or not, but they should be back by mid-week healthier than ever and of course, big and fruity smelling."

Dijini tightened the straps holding the Lazyboy to the floor.

"I told Fowler he shouldn't mess with that sonoluminescence crap anymore. The guy won't listen."

"The what?"

"Sonoluminescence. He hooks these high frequency sound generators to a beaker of liquid in his room and crushes these little gas bubbles until they create light... and shift reality a little."

Randy turned to look out the window... the window that was now gone. The one that had moved up the wall and into the attic.

"I dunno. He ain't a bad roomate. Buys more of the beer than we do."

"Yeah. He's okay. But when I wake up with a propeller coming out of my ass or something, he and I are gonna have a talk!"
 
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Note: The characters are in their mid 20s.
Gary enters the room. John is watching Vid.
"Hey John look what I buy!"
"What's that?"
"Makes music"
"Music? You mean like Vid unit?"
"No. You make the music"
"You? Alone?"
"Yes"
"Umm...How?"
"You push the white and black things...I think"
"You dont know how to do it?!?"
Pause
"No. But it has a...Don't know how they call it...paper..."
"Let me see"
John opens the box:
"See... Paper"
"That's a book!"
"Book?"
"You have to read it"
"Read it? All of it"
"Afraid so"
"You know how?"
"To read?...No. My uncle does"
"Your uncle! Lets go see him!"
"Can't. Dont know where he is"
"Oh. Sorry"
"No...Is not like that...He hides from them...I hope..."
 
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I've got a blank page and a pen, let's get the creative juices flowing.

What will I write about, there's a world of possibilities, the potential of this page is limitless. I can right anything I want, and who knows, it could be a work of art. Or it could be garbage.

Hmm, maybe I'll leave all this potential for another day, yeah, that's what I'll. Keep this page for tomorrow and write a masterpeice on it, but for now I'll go eat a sandwich.
 
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Glory!

Glory!
 
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Ishka poked her nose out of her mother's pouch for the second time in as many days. That squat, boggle-eyed thing across the room is still there. Her father.

Ishka knows his looks are almost indistinguishable from her mother's, but the smell is not quite right. It's going to take some time to get used to him.

Ishka is at that stage of her life where curiosity compells her to explore the world outside mother's pouch, but her budding consciousness isn't sure she's really ready.

Ok, one more peek. What is that! Father has a pouch, and peeking out of it, back at me? I have a brother? Oh, no, this is just too much.
 
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The wind comes through Jeremy's heart with wings of cold steel. His large rubber boots seeming to be moving on their own bones, and only the distant pain of muffled footsteps telling his time. White is the noise of light - white is sight.

Raising his large head looking up the covered hillside at the weighted tree smoothly coated in sleeves of ice. They had not come last evening as they had promised, and this had become the reason for another wager.

He had lost. As he had planned.
 
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what do you see in a mirror?
 
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"What if . . ." began Mikah, as she held the blue and white rice bowl in her hand and tapped the rim with her chopsticks.

Nate frowned at her, but nodded, visible over the top of the box of Chinese take-out. The smell of hot pepper and sesame oil was making him hungry.

"We've got stacks of dishes in the kitchen, and so does everyone else. Lots of them. There are even more piled up in shops, and then there are paper plates." She opened random boxes, looking for the one with the steamed rice.

Nate made his "I'm listening" noise, and set down the empty box.

"It seems like such a waste."

"What?" he asked, as he stripped the paper off another pair of chopsticks.

"All those dishes. What if we had one bowl each?"

"Like those monks?" asked Nate.

"Yeah. You would carry it all the time." She dumped the box of rice into her bowl, and poked at the square rice-lump until it broke into chunks. "When you go somewhere to eat, they put food in your bowl, and afterwards you wash it, and you are ready for the next meal."

"What if you want to eat pizza, and all you have is a little round soup bowl?" he asked.

"Pizza is finger food," she explained. "It doesn't count."

"Beer?"

"You can drink beer out of a bowl."

"Yeah, I suppose. What about storing leftovers?"

Mikah looked out the window. "You don't have leftovers. There aren't a fixed number of people at a meal. You just invite in more people until all the food is eaten." She smiled, imagining the happy community where meals were shared, instead of being plastic wrapped and sealed in the dark interior of a refrigerator.

"Well," said Nate thoughtfully, "that's fine, until your weird aunt makes some sort of anchovy/brussle-sprout/tofu surprise casserole. What if no one wants to eat it?"

There is no sig.
 
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Glory!

Hallelujah!
 
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I wanted to test the accuracy of political polling in the United States, so I decided to duplicate the most recent CNN/TIMES poll regarding President Bush's approval ratings.

I polled 1008 voting age Americans. 53% said they still approved of the way President Bush was doing his job, but 48% say the Bush administration either misinterptreted WMD data prior to the Iraq war or fabricated it. Only 41% of those polled would presently choose any of the announced Democratic Presidential candidates over Bush. Interestingly, 12% say they would vote for the Loch Ness Monster if he were running against Bush, while only 2% noted that this would be impossible because the Constitution requires that the US President be born in the United States and that the Loch Ness Monster, if there is one, was born in Scottland or Canada or somewhere.

Less than 1% of those polled were upset and said that the pollster "was constantly staring at my boobs". Also less than 1% were those who agreed to have dinner with me provided I chose "someplace nice". Fully 3% of those polled told me to go fuck myself. The poll configuration prohibits us from determining with statistical signifigance whether they meant that literally.

Interestingly, 2% of those polled asked if the pollster would "like pie with that" and indicated that I should pay "$7.91 at the first window".
 
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"You ever wonder what it would be like if the Rapture happened and all the Fundies went bye-bye?" Steve asked, glaring at the little green car in front of us with the LOGOS license plate and "Abortion Stops a Beating Heart" bumper sticker.

He always asks me stuff like this when I'm driving. It's bad enough that I have to deal with psychotic Dallas drivers in monster pickups who think I'm insulting their penis size if I get a car length ahead of them. I really didn't want to dodge Ford F-350s and debate the ramifications of Christian mythology at the same time.

"Dunno," I muttered, flipping off a be-mulleted moron in a banged-up red Grand Am. "Isn't the Antichrist supposed to show up after that?"

"Yeah, but what if it didn't happen? What if all the devout types got sucked up into heaven," he wiggled his fingers towards the car roof, "and once they were gone, there wasn't enough belief to power the rest of the things predicted in Revelations?"

"The Republicans would be pissed," I said. "They'd lose a huge chunk of their voting base right there."

"Yeah, that would be good, wouldn't it?" he said dreamily. "The abstinence movement would crash and burn."

I thought about it. "Roe V. Wade wouldn't be constantly challenged anymore," I offered.

"Stem cell research would be legalized."

"So would gay marriage."

"It could be the dawn of a whole new renaissance."

I took my eyes off the road just long enough to look at him. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Pinky?"

"I think so, Brain," he said in the world's worst quasi-English accent. "But where are you going to get cables big enough to jump-start the Rapture?"

"Good question, Pinky. Good question."

--
Acting is for those who need to have people pay close attention to them.
I write, which means I have a large ego best viewed from a distance.
 
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Glory!

Praise it (writing)!

Praise it!
 
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Thank yew, thank yew, I'll be here all week!

--
Acting is for those who need to have people pay close attention to them.
I write, which means I have a large ego best viewed from a distance.
 
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1% willing to date ya Trogdor? That's 10 people! You go, Troggie.
 
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Jack paused before unlocking the front door. Who knew what might be lurking out there?

He shrugged his shoulders carefully, measuring the weight of the pair of pistols and shoulder holster rig. The leather shifted slightly, and settled into place over his charcoal-gray turtleneck sweater.

A twitch of his right foot confirmed that the steel-toed leather boot was snuggly laced, and pressed the hilt of the throwing knife against his calf. He brushed his hand down the seam of his black denim jeans to confirm that said knife was still invisble.

Jack brushed the trench coat back and dragged his fingertips across his left pocket, reminding himself about the cellular phone, $1.87 in pocket change, and the sterile gauze mask in a sealed packet. (the house keys and the condoms were in the right-side pocket.)

He glanced around the kitchen, to insure that no critical bit of gear was missing. A roll of black electrical tape joined a Leatherman tool in one his coat pockets.

He smiled with satisfaction, and slid the door open. With a smooth and practiced stride, he stepped out into the hallway without anything rattling. The door closed behind him, and he heard the door latch.

"D*mn it! I forgot my wallet again!"

-------------------
There is no sig.
 
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~~~ 1% willing to date ya Trogdor? That's 10 people! ~~~

*less than* 1%!

Actually it was just one girl, and the girl part remains unconfirmed. Stood me up. Such is the life of an important pollster.
 
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"God damn, it's like they wanna burn down the fucking forest, but don't realize it yet. Something about cause and effect that haven't quite reached their cognitive centers yet," I said, shaking my head in misanthropic disbelief.

"What are you babbling about?" Spence asked knowing something-acerbic-this-way-comes.

"The fuck-knuckles in the camp down the way are using whole trees for firewood. They've got about ten feet long stuck into the maw of the firepit, with another draped over it. I saw one of them ripping branches off a nearby tree. Probably hoping the smoke would drive away the mosquitos. Stop looking at me like that."

Either he didn't believe me or there was a bug on my nose. Again. "Come on...," I said gesturing for him to follow.

--Never underestimate the power of uneducated people in large groups.
 
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"Nope..." Ethan pushed his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose.

Then 'she' tilted 'her' head. "Excuse me?"

She had that familiar look about her. No correspondance would be entered into. Cheques would not be honoured. But the defence had requested bail...

"I said, no." Then with force. "I, did, not."

Lines of battle had been drawn now. No point standing around in no-man's-land. Push forward. Defeat is not an option. Soldier.

"I'm tired of you asking if I made my bed. I make it every morning, and you always ask... always."

The 'Queen of the Harpies' began her ascent into a rage. Like a flower she began to unfold. It started with the eyes - flickering. It spread to the brow - furrowing. It centred on the nostrils - flaring.

And Ethan was gone.

---
Made from an extremely authentic tough shiny blue nylon, every detail is matched to the original spec. The real mouton sheepskin collar is just sumptuous, and their reproduction of the Crown zipper is stunning.
 
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Glory!

Can I get an Amen?

Can I get an Amen?
 
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