|
Post by Tout-Perd on Sept 4, 2010 19:28:47 GMT -5
A woman is sitting in a lawn chair, sipping a reddish tea calmly. Throughout her room, one can easily see the standard hotel ammenities. A television set to the travel channel (currently discussing horking down some sort of exotic sausage made with a variety of invertebrates and fermented pork), a bed with gigantic downy comforters the color of vanilla icecream, and a woefully unexploited minibar. A laptop sits in her lap, the desktop the same city street that can be seen outside her window, but at night. There's a window open, with dozens of boxes full of pixellated mines and one box full of a very pixellated, very dead smiley face.
It might have been her birthday today. She stopped keeping track of that while that one really popular man was president. She reasoned that if she didn't keep counting the years, she wouldn't keep aging. As far as she's reckoned, she hasn't aged a day since then. Her topology has changed a bit, and she's acquired a few beauty marks on the backs of her hands, but she hasn't aged a day.
When you live for every moment of every day, you can just leave the past behind you. Like your age, the name of your granddaughter, the number of the room you've been living in, or your name.
Indeed, what is her name? She could've swore she had one once, but she must've left it in an old piece of luggage.
|
|
|
Post by Tout-Perd on Sept 6, 2010 22:04:48 GMT -5
Ah, Rusty Battleaxe! She’d always been fond of the name Rusty. So fond, in fact, that she wished to name her son- Oh, wait. Yes, she’d wanted to name her son Rusty, because nobody in her family had ever been named Rusty (Her nephew had been named Verdigris, but that was one of those names that was far too common for her to bother with!). But then she got a daughter instead, and so she had to postpone the name. She suggested her daughter name her son Rusty. But then her daughter had another daughter, and she now found herself fearing she’d never get to name anything Rusty a’tall. Oh, but yes. That did mean that her name probably wasn’t Rusty. tzolkinRoulette chewed her lip thoughtfully, and let her eyes roll back in thought. Oh my… Had her name been Youngho Xu? She didn’t even know how to say such a name! Of course, given her propensity for living on the fly, she might have just came up with pronunciations on the fly. “Yown gHo Ksuh.” Somewhat choppy, and that Yown reminded her of the caterwauling of something or other. Possibly a wounded feline or a wounded child, there really wasn’t much difference beyond the agency that went after you for each one… Maybe there was some other way to say it? “Yo Ungh Oxu.” No, no, that wouldn’t do. That sounded quite like something somebody would say into a microphone while grabbing their crotch. Not that she would be too perturbed if certain people were to do so while saying her name, but if the surly janitor on floor 2 were to do it… She really couldn’t go with that name. Just the thought made her want to scrub her eyeballs with lye soap. “Yoon-“ Ugh! However could one be willing to go by such a cultureless, simplistic name? That was beyond consideration! “Young Ho Zoo.” Well, then… Since the other ones sounded ungainly, she was to consign herself to a synonym for brothel? Never! That would not be the case! Though amusing as it would be to see dozens of bright faced (and then, quickly, crestfallen) potential clients turn up at her doorstep, surely she’d be charged for an entire group when she desired to travel. This was problematic. Neither of those names fit, and a dynamic spirit like herself couldn’t afford to sit around on her duff all day, dreaming up some moniker! tR: Exploit minibar. The woman decided that indeed, she needed to loosen her memory banks. With a sigh, she pushed herself out of the lawn chair. She folded the laptop on its hinge, and tucked it under her arm with a smooth motion, one she must’ve been doing for at least fifteen years now. Though really, the computers were probably different then… Even before she had aged went through a period of gradual physical refinement, it had taken a much greater deal of her strength to lug around one of those beasts. She took a bottle the size of her forearm by its neck, the clear liquid within sloshing… and then moved it aside, making room for her to set her laptop. Now she could pace around the room. And pacing, since the feet inevitably connected to the legs which connected to the spine which connected to the brain, would act like a gear drive to help her better push her brain into action. OOC: I've already found the name I want. But I feel it has better rhythm being broken into multiple posts. Feel free to make more suggestions, though. (I'm surprised Pohatu didn't suggest Cowbody Bebop.)
|
|
|
Post by Tout-Perd on Sept 8, 2010 21:49:26 GMT -5
TR: Yoon Mangjeol where doing it manShe had already tried putting that name out of mind! Its recurrence was unsettling. Mayhaps, somehow, it held a significance? Well, it couldn’t be a name for her. Even if it was, she’d just judiciously forget it and come up with another name. Similar to how, in days of yore, she had simply “Misplaced” her shoes on a walk home, leading to the purchase of a much more ergonomic pair. Of course, the other bit of the thought was much more perturbing. To not know one’s name was slightly unsettling, but she knew many people with far worse disorders. Though she didn’t make a habit of checking up on old friends, she knew that many of her peers had succumbed to the horrors of incontinence and palsy. Such things were livable inconveniences, even if they did diminish one’s capacity for strangling bears and seducing secret agents. But to start thinking in Comic Sans- No, no, better to fling herself from the roof than submit to such a fate. Oh, come on! That wasn’t even her own thought! She must’ve picked it up on her fillings or some such. Lucille Ball had once done such a thing, and tzolkinRoulette most certainly would not mind following in the footsteps of one with such éclat. If she had fillings, that was. An experimental probe with her tongue confirmed that yes, she had fillings. That was important to know. She’d need to remember to avoid chewing on tinfoil any time soon, which was a regrettable limitation on her pastimes. She grabbed an orange feather boa from where it had been draped, tangled haphazardly in a lampshade nearby. She carefully slung it over her shoulders, the feathers brushing her cheek with a familiar touch- Reba. Reeb. It came into her head with a voice that wasn’t her own, a voice that- She touched her cheek softly with her fingertips, and smiled faintly. That had to be her name. Why she had been locking it up in her head, she didn’t know. But it was her name, as surely as the boa on her neck was hers, as surely as the game sitting on her bed amongst a pile of junkmail was hers, as surely as her favorite chair was hers. It belonged to her, and like everything, except possibly the contents of that cardboard packaging sitting amongst the comforters, it suited her perfectly well. OOC: Is it wrong to write a post for this with an underlying note of romantic drama?
|
|
|
Post by Tout-Perd on Sept 9, 2010 22:24:03 GMT -5
Reba turned, looking towards her disconcertingly large hotel television. A bald man was currently eating deep fried spider legs with relish. Erm. Not exactly spider legs, she supposed. More like “the legs of a creature that looks like a spider, but that sonnuvabitch is the size of a cat.” That’d be more accurate.
Then again, tho’, she supposed it was just a large invertebrate (arthropod, mayhaps? She never could get the two straight.). That made it essentially an identical act to eating boiled lobster, at least from a biological perspective. Unless deep frying was inherently evil, which was not something that she’d consider entirely outside the realm of possibility.
What a novel idea! She had not yet reached the age where hobbling was inevitable in locomotion, but then again… She certainly wasn’t too young to start practicing. After all, figure skaters typically started practicing before they could even walk.
Maybe, if she practiced her hobbling especially well, in a few years, she could throw a double axle in the middle of her geriatric walk down the hall. That would be most pleasing, provided she didn’t break three hips or something like that.
Where was she again? Oh yes, hobbling. She put one foot in front of her, and swung her hand forwards. She made sure to tremble excessively, hoping to remind people of a kitten caught in the rain. Surely that would get her helped across the street (to the casino, where she’d inevitably blow colossal amounts of her Social Security.)
Okay, take it easy now. Swing the hips just a little… She lost patience and purposefully strode over to the pile of mail.
Good point, she SHOULD dispose of the mail. And captchaloguing it would be the most efficient way of going about it. Reba went to ready her sylladex-
Oh, dear. She had an issue.
She had more than one Fetch Modus on hand, and couldn’t recall which she last equipped.
She had on hand: REVOLVER MODUS: This modus could hold up to six items, and tended to retrieve them… rather forcefully, in a random order. Though it was not the most efficient Modus, Reba had always enjoyed the unpredictability. (The occasion where she shot a maid out the third story window with a copy of “Old Yeller” notwithstanding. That had been slightly messy.)
BLACKJACK MODUS: This modus could store up to thirteen items, but tended to shuffle their order. It would only release items in pairs, if both items totaled to 21 or less letters in their names. It tended to drop the items rather heavily, so she had to remember to watch her toes.
BULLSHIT MODUS: This modus was not her favorite, she was afraid to say. The name was a bit too frank for her, really. It would store just as many items as the BLACKJACK MODUS, but she could fetch the items out of order. That was, provided she could convince the Modus that it really was in the order she wanted. Otherwise, it’d just dump everything all over the place. And that was particularly unpleasant, though it didn’t garner as many evening news reports as bludgeoning a woman to death with a Disney film.
So, which one should she choose?
|
|
|
Post by Tout-Perd on Sept 12, 2010 0:28:01 GMT -5
She nodded to herself. When thoughts came in stereo, one should always listen! She drew the REVOLVER MODUS from her pocket, and quickly equipped it to her sylladex. There was the noise of a very dramatic gun-cock, and she found herself tempted strongly to quote Dirty Harry. Not right now, though. She was too young for such references.
Ah, yes, she could do this now. She decided to do the mail by category. That might come in handy somehow, and she had the space for it at the moment.
Okay, first one of those ANOL CDs, or DVDs, or VDVs, or whatever the hell one would call it. From the way they spread it around, probably a VTD. It was reclining in a steel box the size of a book, air-conditioned, impact shielded, and probably with a contingent of slaves that had been stuffed inside to serve the CD in the afterlife. She captchalogued it, and her sylladex rotated to a fresh spot.
That thing wouldn’t burn well, but she’d be more than happy to burn it. Far too many of the ladies she fleeced in Bridge Club had fallen for the sell, and signed up to be able to receive e-mails of pictures of their grandchildren. Considering that it deprived them of a monthly fee, and thusly deprived her of additional gambling money, it had to be dealt with like any competitor. Doused in kerosene, lit on fire, and then thrown in the nearest river (After the fire went out, of course! You’d be wasting good flames if you threw them into the river too soon!).
Ah, let’s see. What was next again? A phonebook. Pfff, as if that was any use! Phonebooks were good for sitting on when she went to play Poker, so as to stay eye-level with the gents, and they made wonderful sources of paper for a birdcage. But in the age of the internet, that’s really all they were good for. Instead of looking up a pizza place, she could pull that up on Google, and they’d throw in recommendations on what restaurants wouldn’t give you Lassa Fever too. SHWOOP! Into the Sylladex as well!
And now, for the bulk of the junk. Important Notice from the IRS, Last Chance to Sign Up for Playgirl, LOSE WEIGHT IN 7 DAYS, MIRACLE AGING CURE DISCOVERED IN BOLIVIA (Pfff, as if she needed that!), some police charity thing, YOU COULD WIN A BRAND NEW CAMARRO, I miss you, grandma … Yup, she could toss all of those.
Wait, no.
They weren't all junk. How could she even think such a thing?
There was one with a picture of a sports car. That one could stay. They sometimes had scratch tickets in them, and she had an inordinate fondness for those. Some day, she wanted to get wallpaper done up in the same stuff as they used on those things. That would be a wonderful improvement to her life.
She pushed the fancy car envelope aside, and the rest of the mail vanished into storage.
Reba leaned forwards, and then slowly peeled a strip of tape away from the cardboard box. The anticipation was… underwhelming, truly. She’d won “Best Poetry” on some website or other, when she had just posted her request for help working Pesterchum in the wrong topic. And so they sent her some new game thing. Probably one of those MMOs or whatever they were. She couldn’t stand those. They were “Grind, grind, grind, hope for lucky drops.”
That was not her. Not in the least. Relying on luck? She adored such a course of action. She THRIVED on such a course of action. If you put everything on fortune’s back, and let it ride, that was a thrill worth the risk.
But pulling a lever, hoping for a prize like a monkey hoping to get a biscuit? Ugh. Utterly disdainful.
She supposed she’d humor them by trying the game once, but…
Oh, yes. Opening the package.
She jerked the tape quickly, and the cardboard flaps sprung open, wispy bits of shredded paper hanging from the edges. A vividly packaged game awaited inside, with bold block letters on the cover. With a flick of her wrist, she frisbeed the case across the room. It bumped up against the bottle full of some clear beverage, and came to a stop atop the minibar.
A moment later, the bottle fell over, and started rolling towards the edge of the counter.
SYLLADEX (REVOLVER MODUS) [? Phonebook ?][? AOL CD ?][? Junk Mail ?][? ---- ?][? ---- ?][? ---- ?] STRIFE PORTFOLIO: garrotteKind {----}
|
|
|
Post by Tout-Perd on Sept 23, 2010 21:10:41 GMT -5
Of course. Granted, at this stage in refinement, a standard diving catch was out of the question. She’d long outgrown the years where that wouldn’t be beneath her dignity. However, a maneuver with slightly more finesse would not be out of the question. She fell sideways to the carpet, rolling with sideways in a flawless barrel roll. She slipped the boa from her neck, and flipped it forwards.
It ensnared the neck of the falling bottle, and she jerked it back. It came back to her, bearing the beverage, which she attempted to catch with her free hand-
And flipped up over her grip, smashing her in the lip. She could taste the metallic twang of her blood almost instantly, and felt a few droplets spill onto her t-shirt. With a snap of her boa hand, she freed the bottle, and rolled it away.
That had clearly not been a dignified enough way of handling the falling bottle. She’d need to come up with another solution. As was, her bruised hip and split lip certainly seemed to be some universal sign that she was not to be tumbling around like some Chinese acrobat.
Or, considering that Jackie Chan was about as youthful as she was, mayhaps some outside party was to blame!
Ah, yes. The boa! It seemed so innocuous, but it was akin to a serpent! A feathery serpent that came for two for twenty dollars, the third one free, at her local K-Mart. The worst kind of serpent!
She knew she only had moments before it followed through on this attack, now that it had smelled blood, its favorite food!
STRIFE!
What would she do? ASSASSINATE AVULSE ARTHRALGIA ALZHEIMERS
What will the boa do? ABIDE ASPHYXIATE ANTICIPATE ARMLOCK
SYLLADEX (REVOLVER MODUS) [? Phonebook ?][? AOL CD ?][? Junk Mail ?][? ---- ?][? ---- ?][? ---- ?] STRIFE PORTFOLIO:]/b] garrotteKind {----}
|
|
|
Post by Tout-Perd on Oct 21, 2010 21:38:39 GMT -5
Reba went to ready herself for the inevitable attack, and drew her boa from her neck. She strung it between her fingertips, almost wrapping it like floss (at least, in the way that the dentists recommended). This position typically gave her enough leverage to establish a decent strangle on most enemies, which’d be enough for her husband to pummel them into-
No, wait. He wasn’t around right now. Anymore. No, she couldn’t count on him for this. She’d need to find some better way of subduing her enemies once she started choking them. Maybe if she just choked them outright? Slightly barbaric, but it played to her skills. Her skills of wrapping something cordlike around people’s throats, and getting the heck out of the way once she did…
Speaking of which, hadn’t she just been Strifing against somebody? She didn’t notice anybody now, far as her still-keen-enough senses could perceive. It was just her and her trusty (in this case, meaning that it could be replaced for pocket-change when in inevitably broke) boa, alone in her hotel room. Maybe she’d just been practicing or whatever. It still felt like there was something she needed to do, but-
Oh, confound it all! It wasn’t worth raising her blood pressure over. She’d certainly stumble over whatever the forgotten task was at some point. After all, the hotel room wasn’t the biggest, and she had little in the way of plans at the present time. She would find it at some point tomorrow, probably. She wandered towards her computer. Browsing the internet would at least provide some modicum of stimulation. Maybe that would spark her brain. She draped the boa back over her neck, and went back to the her lawn chair.
The boa waited, as it always did. Though the present had not been the most opportune time to strike, there would indeed be other chances. It had waited this long, and it certainly could wait longer. After all, the boa was named after one of the most patient predators in all of nature! Surely it could find as much persistence within itself!
And so, the boa waited. Its time would come. Indeed, in a single brutal and perfect moment, its time would come.
SYLLADEX (REVOLVER MODUS) [? Phonebook ?][? AOL CD ?][? Junk Mail ?][? ---- ?][? ---- ?][? ---- ?] STRIFE PORTFOLIO:]/b] garrotteKind {----}
|
|
|
Post by Tout-Perd on Dec 22, 2011 4:46:26 GMT -5
Reba couldn't really see the harm in that. There were, as far as she could discern, no serial killers in the room to go after her young, vulnerable flesh while attending to the matter. Furthermore, she was fairly positive that she was being rendered in a symbolic enough manner that her bust size was a trivial detail. Without any further ado, she lightened her load and freed up some breathing room. Of course, that left her with two gentlemen to deal with. Olmec was a reliable fellow, even if he was exerting what seemed to be a Level 87 Disconcerting Oggle. She could put him pretty much anywhere, without worries about him taking off on her. Granted, there was the occasional poison dart trap and collapsing floor to look out for while he was around (and when he wasn't, too, but she chalked those ones up to having missed them earlier). All in all, though, she found him to be at the head of the pack when it came to anything involving... well, sitting there and being heavy. He was an excellent paperweight, admittedly. As for the late Mr. Hoffa? Well, she just needed to find another good hiding spot for him. It wasn't so much that she feared any repercussions for keeping him on around, but she did enjoy the mystery of it all. It seemed to all be one long game of hide-and-seek to her, akin to playing keep-away (with the Feds oh-so-graciously filling the role of the short, tubby kid hopping about impotently). Maybe she'd sneak him into the locker of one of the room service lads. It had been a good two days since she'd driven one to quit, and Reba Winset was starting to feel she needed to put the fear of God back into them again... SYLLADEX (REVOLVER MODUS)[? Phonebook ?][? AOL CD ?][? Junk Mail ?][? ---- ?][? ---- ?][? ---- ?] STRIFE PORTFOLIO:]/b] garrotteKind {----}
|
|
|
Post by Tout-Perd on Aug 11, 2013 21:58:42 GMT -5
NOTE: Unfinished post. Read at your own risk. I'll be back in an hour or two to finish this off, or at worst tomorrow afternoon. Until then, this shall hold its place. Reba: Take Hoffa out onto the playground. Bury him face-up in the sand with his features just barely poking out. Beneath the swingset maybe. However much Reba would have enjoyed doing so (it was never too early to get youngin's acclimatized to taking out the trash in a proper manner), it was not to be. Another plot relevant character had already utilized that hiding spot! Reba could not help but shake her fist balefully at the accursed foreshadowing. Until she thought of a better location to keep him, she'd be stuck tolerating Hoffa's churlish presence. Reba: Scour the room for poison dart traps. A good idea! Until she had a better idea where to secret her teamster burden, tidying up around the apartment would be a brilliant way to occupy herself. Reba was quite contented to find that she was scouring about the apartment, as opposed to puttering. It was a much more apt description of her approach to things, after all. She just needed to decide where to start the scouring... SYLLADEX (REVOLVER MODUS)[? Phonebook ?][? AOL CD ?][? Junk Mail ?][? ---- ?][? ---- ?][? ---- ?] STRIFE PORTFOLIO:]/b] garrotteKind {----}
|
|