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Post by The Admin on Dec 19, 2003 18:49:21 GMT -6
My appologies to the rest of the adventure members, but since TEXT TEXT cant start new threads, I thought I would post my story thus far. Should any of you like to read it that is fine, logan, if you want to delete it, please tell me, and give me a place to put it. Thank you, and now, the currently poorly writen outline of, mystory thus far. Note, there will be many changes made, generaly in an editorial manner. if you have any, please note them under the wemonk discussion, or if you want to beat me for doing this, that is not fine. Good Night, and have a harrei chrishna!
He awoke that evening, just as the sun was setting. An other foul day gone at last. Now for the peace that only night can bring. He loved the moon, and the stars, but hated the infernal sun, shining it is blinding light upon his domain. They loved the sun, oh yes they did, and look at the meddling fools. Always sitting in they are hot and gaudy palaces or forcing those whom they had subjugated to work under the suns burning light. Now at last their day was done, and his was just beginning. He watched as the last of strands of blood red light, faded unto the darkness. Soon he woke his mate up. "It is time to go, let us leave our mark for the evening". Therefore, without further a due, they took to the skies, and flew towards the city. Times were good, there was plenty of food about now, and his populations were growing, he could feel each new member of his race, the new, the young, the adults, and the older members. He could feel their strengths, some growing, some fading, but few matching his own. Over the town they flew, coming up from the river. It always pleased him to make his kill before the peoples foul dogs could smell his flesh. Now the only question was which one was ready for the taking. Then he saw them, two small children, no more than four feet high, they would not have even reached his waist. They would make a hors de vours for he and his mate. Over they flew, circling, while the children only wondered why the goats were frightened. He dove from the air, descending right in front of the little boy. He stopped a meter from the boy, hovering in the air. He flexed his claws, and grinned a sadistic grin at the child. He waited for several seconds for the boy to run, and he only did when he was drenched in the flow of blood, now issuing forth from his sisters headless corpse. The boy turned and began to run, fleeing from this terror and hell that had found him. The boy only heard the whoosh of wings as the made his second step, and mercifully never felt the spiked tail of this demon as it ran through him. The child's last thought was what would mommy say about the stain on his new shirt. Then without further delay, the monster reached forward and tore the boys head off. The monster bathed in the crimson flow of the boy, and watched as his mate tore off the arm of the now barely desirable form of the girl. She took the arm and began ripping off the flesh. Soon both had striped all the meat off the small bones that they wanted, child flesh was good, but it was not sown with the muscle and nutrients that their father would provide. With only a small, shoo to announce his departure he left for the house that was sure to be home to the mother and father. His mate was sickly these days, he could feel her strength ebbing, and so before he left, he promised to bring her a meal. She understood and left for their roost, she would await his return there. Remonalicon, for that was the beast's foul name, sped toward the house, hoping to find fresh meat, and to have a little entertainment that night, before the dawn of the next day. He flew for five minutes and found the quaint little house of the children, smoke issuing forth from the chimney. He new this would be fun, for three large coats, and five small ones, were hung next to the heavy wooden door, barred with iron, to keep his kind out. There were no windows he could fit his mighty shoulders and leathery wings through, so he waited. After a good deal of time, an old man waddled out, grasping at his guts. Remonalicon, or simply Remon stood above the door, on the thatch roof. The man sped towards the small out house A hundred yards away, never noticing the eight-foot monster standing behind him. Ordinarily the Ulari drew attention to them selves. They were the essence of darkness in this world, and darkness likes to be known, but for now, Remon was pacified to keep his emotions dull, and slow, allowing him to be ignored more easily. It was at the half waypoint that Remon struck the man, completely tearing off his head in one pass, which slowed his flight, allowing him to turn and come back through the open door. Yet these people were quick, the customary centennial at the door was quickly closing the door. Remon could hear the iron bars slide in place as the man at the door locked him out. Remon flared his wings and instead of running into the door head on, managed to hit it with his great blood caked feet. The door strained as the Ulari hit the door. There was a sigh of relief. Not even the Ulari could chew through iron and wood. As the were barricading the windows, should the beast stick his head through them, the tension eased. That is until the first one of the children, the youngest, of only three or four years lied down and saw the demonic face grinning down at it, its horns spread wide pushing the part of the thatch roof back, its razor sharp rows of teeth revealed in a sickly sadistic grin. The little girl screamed in terror as an arm reached down through the thatch. He reached out and wiggled his way into the cabin, all the while laughing at the child, for she would be the first to die. He reached down, but before he could grab a hold of her a sword swung somewhere to his right. The stroke was true and cut off Remons hand. Yet before the man could withdraw and strike again, Remon reached forward, grabbed the sword and the mans other hand, lifted him up and pinned his shirt to a rafter in the roof. Then with this adversary removed, he waited, and just like it should, his arm was growing him a new hand. Now that he had both hands, and any opponent unarmed, he took his time with the children, first tearing off thier arms, then thier legs, and waiting for the screams and wiggling to stop. Each child in turn died, and watched its sibbling being torn apart, and killed, knowing that it would be next. After the first child the mother realized the threat to her children and charged at remon. Laughing he grabed her, carried her over to a table twisted up her shirt and pinned her so that she couldn't turn from the horror now ensuing in her happy little home. Each child begged for mercy, each child beged for mother, and each child in turn begged for death. Their cries, screams and pleas remained clear in thier mothers head untill the day she died of old age, sixty years latter. With the mutilation of the children complete, and the last one still squirming on the blood soaked floor, Remon lept out into the night air, and in the time it took him to stop laughing, he was gone. Five minuets later, he remembered his mate, and flew back to bring her a treat. He dove foot first through the roof, crashed to the floor, grabed the man and again burst out of the roof. She could hear him calling her name, her husband kept on saying, "love you Stelmaria, I love you!" Then, he was gone, and Stelmaria never saw him again, alive or dead.
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Post by The Admin on Dec 19, 2003 18:50:00 GMT -6
Back at Remons roost the fool was still struggling to escape. Remon droped the man, from 15 feet, to break his legs, allowing for his mate to take her time. She quickly disembouwled him and began to feed, sorting the organs from the intestines and entrails. Finally he was granted piece when she bit in to his still beating heart. She grabed his arm and through the corpse into the pile of bones, spilling his now cold entrails and blood all over the ground. With the meal gone Remon deciede to speak, for something was bothering him. "Vesren", he said to his mate, "Again I felt it, that presence, of being watched, and disgusted". "What do you thing it means" she stated simply. "I think that times are going to change". "I have felt the power behind it's revoltion, whatever it be, it must be killed." " I fear that it is of the beings our cattle speak of". She pondered his words for a moment and said, "How do you know those are not just legends told to give them hope?". "Our cattle may be fools", he said, "yet for once I think they speak the truth" She remained silent, podering such a possiblity for the rest of the night. Finally with the appearence of a red dawn, the Ulari flew up into the clock tower of the abandoned town hall. The halls foundation had craked and was crumbling, but for now it held. Then, with only the bones and bodies of the dead, no being on that world could have found the Ulari, or known they were even there. At about noon several cautious children aproached the hall, for it was now rumored that this building was roost of the Ulari. The children crept as silently as they could, into the building. The examined all of it, exept for one door, presumably leading to the clock tower, where all of them trembled, and none of them dared open it. The children wandered out of the hall, but got lost, and came out through the back where a stream flowed. The children walked over to the stream, but before they could reach it, the smelt the stench of death and decay. No one looked, no one had to, they all new what hid behind the thicket and swarm of flies. Then as if to confirm their beliefs, one of them found a blood soaked piece of cloth. The piece was still wet, and when the boy holding it told them, with a completely white face they all scampered. Remon was sleeping, as was his mate, but unlike his mate, of lesser power, Remon could cast his thoughts outward. He knew of the boys, and was the one who caught the attention of the fools so that they might find the piece of cloth. His plan was working wonderfully, with some success, he should be able to flush out the being that he could always feel at feeding times. With this thought, he allowed himself to slip into a sleep so deep, that he never heard the towns people coming for him and his sickly mate.
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Post by The Admin on Dec 19, 2003 18:50:35 GMT -6
Chapter II The awakening of the enlightend
Prak was, once again doing something strange. It was at a formal dinner with the new lord of the college. This in itself was not so strange, when Prak wanted to, he could be quite normal, and if he really tried he could even appear suave, and debonair. He was relaxing in the lords private parlor and watched while the man took a deep breath form his pipe. Prak was fed, and was very sedate now, and feared if he indulged in the poppies as well that he might just fall asleep! The lord was goning on and on about all of the maters in his (very tiny) world. He was complaining about having to watch some child, and about her father, and all of his recent escapades. It seemed he was up in Muscovy looking for some other mad man named Stanislaus Grumman. Blah Blah Blah... was all that Prak could hear, and soon he fell into a barely concious state, and then, well, into a not so conccious state. Prak realized in an istant what had happend, and what it meant. He was stuck agian in another hellish dream, this time he was tearing apart children. He could feel thier pulse become irregular and finally ceise, Then he felt his demonic grin crack wide in a grin as he glided over to the a huddle of children. Prack could feel his razor sharp claws slide into the flesh of the poor child. He flung her over to the center of the room, where two other horribly dismembered children lay, thier limbs scattered to in fro. The child screamed and pulled at the door, but she was to short to reach it. She jumped and as she did so to open the door and escape, Prak felt a sick burst of joy, for he now had the perfect oppertunity, as the child gained a hold of the door lock, so to did Prak of the childs legs. He felt his claws again bite into the childs smooth legs, and now Prak could feel himself tearing off the childs legs, yet doing it with just enough force to make it last for a few seconds. Prak screamed at his arms to stop this horror from continuing, and then to his great surprise, it did, he had stoped it. At that moment Prak understood what was happening, who he was, and what this fell Minion of hell was, and that what it was doing was for entertainment. He knew that this was no dream, and with sickening chill in the pit of his stomach, he realised that this was reality, and was currently happening, in a world different from his own. Then, with a sudden pain on his cheeks, Prak realised that he was back in his own body, and that now that monster in the other world could continue unchecked to rip apart the children, and to make them suffer. Prak saw the fat lord of the college standing over him, next to the chair that he had fallen out of during the dream. He grabbed the mans robes and pulled him down so that his face was inches from Praks and said "You fat bastard you let him continue his butchery!!!" With no effort greater than that of throwing a news paper prak threw the man back into the wall. The lord in his robes of red sitting unconsious on the floor was pleased Prak, it eased the burden of dispair on his chest and then, achill followed, for he had delighted in another beings suffering. "Stupid man." He said, and then collected up his hat and left the room. * * *
Prak felt the cool night air on his face and felt better. What ever was happening would be stopped, and he would stop it. Though he did not know it at the time, prak is not a human. He is of a far older kind, a species that outdates human kind, one that had sworn to stop the Ulari in a different world. Soon, though he did not know it, Prak was to find himself flung into a battle that had lasted for three millenia. His people were weakening as the Ulari grew in strength. His people needed a hero, and he would become that hero, whether he knew it or not. "Saranja", he said quietly, then a little louder, and finally yelled the name at small shrubery. Then a small voice answered him, "you put me over here you idoit, do you have no memory?" Then, prak turned to find his life long companion, glaring at him, in the shape of dog. "I think something smaller is in order he said´, after clearing his throat in annoyance. "Oh, sure, be that way, but if you sit on me one more time I'm going to personaly see to it that a rather large brown bear will sit on you when you sleep tonight." "Its a deal!" he cried, as his companion turned into a rabbit, with electric blue and orange stripes running down his jet black fur. Then the two of them stood in silence as Prak hailed a taxi, and waited for it to make it's way across the lane. When it had stopped they both climed into the smelly back of the taxi cab. The leather was sticky, but Saranja refused to sit on the floor. "Its absoultly fithly" she whispered to him. "I know" was all he could think of to say in compensation to her. The ride lasted several minuetes, Prak took the time in the taxi to meditate. He knew what he was looking for, but it just wasn't there. He knew the presence he wanted to find, but he could not find him. His belief that the monster was in another world seemed confirmed. Eventually the taxi came to a sudden stop. Prak paid the man and gave him a roll of life savers for a tip, Prak, personaly thought the symbolism was far greater than any petty finial gain, and the driver saw this roll of life-savers as insult to his capabilities. As the man with the taxi drove off, Prak saw him wave good-bye, minus a few fingers. "That's odd", he said to saranja before picking his smelly old luggage container off of the curb. "Well, I suppose I had better go inside and find a good ticket for the way back", he said to himself, we think. So it was, Saranja jumped in his enourmous pocket, and took a nap. Prak knew she did this when she wanted to be left alone, because she never actually slept, Praks kowledge of this fact would elude Saranja for a very long time. Prak suddenly felt very lonely, and wanted her company, but he knew better, she was in a tricky stage, according to Praks years she was entering her sixteenth millenia of existance. Which meant that for humans she would be turning sixteen, a very tricky age for someone to Prak to have to deal with. Many common day facts had eluded Prak, including but not limited to, the fact that electricity powers things(it is not a small fury arboreal animal, hidden in the depths of the Congo), that printing your own money is bad, that adolecents are crazy and tempermental, that the night sky was no longer so dark as it had been, and finally that trains had great inertia, and therefore cannot stop easily, meaning it is very inefective to try and hitch a ride with one. Now, Prak knew Saranja was getting older and was no longer the child that she once was. With this in mind Prak bought two tickets at the kiosk, where the train depot sold it's tickets. Prak booked his ride for some small town called Boston, Mass., but where that was was unimportant, because it was the cheapest ticket there, and he now had an excuse for hanging around the station. He waited several hours for the train he wanted to hitch a ride from to arive. When the blasted thing scheuled to pass Prak waited on the funny parrelel tracks. Finally he saw a small light, then it became bigger and bigger untill finally, the frieght train carring red cross supplies to Mexico, blew its whistle, and tried to warn the man of his impending doom. Poor Prak, soon was relieved of one of his misconceptions, when he was hit by an eighty ton freit-train moving at 70 miles an hour. The train engineer stopped his train, and after walking three quarters of mile, came to survey the damage done to the poor foo. The only thing left to show Prak had been standing there fifteen minuets ago when the egineer came was a pair of shoes, now steaming in the cool night air. "Mi Dios, como hago?!", the poor mexican mumbled to himself, completely forgetting the fact that he was now in the U.S.. Then, three quarters of a mile away, Prak detatched himslef from the front of the train. His pain was very great, and so, when he had fallen off of the grill on the train, leaving behind some very disgusting leg remains and tatered peices of cloth, he waited, biting down on his coat. After a few minuets, the pain subsided and finally disapeared. Prak looked down and was greatfull to see that bloody mess that had been his legs, was still bloody, but no longer messy. His legs had regrown, and so, he decieded he had better go get Saranja, and ask the man why in the hell he hadn't bothered to stop for a mile, after atatching Prak to his train. When Prak finally returned, it was to a scene of great chaos. There were people all over, pointing and wispering at his shoes. He saw the conductor and was relieved to see that the man looked distraught, maybe he hadn't meant to hit Prak. So, prak , missing the warmth of his laofers, siesed them and put them back on. The crowd shudered as he picked of his shoes, dumped the dirt out of them, and placed them back on. He looked down at his pants, decided that he wanted a not-so-torn-up pair of pants. So, without further ado, he sliped off his shoes, walked over to his luggage box, gently lifted Saranja's unconcious rabbit form off of his luggage and retrieved a new pair of pants.
Please aknowlege that this is still in the works, this is the pure, un edited version, and consequently is very poorly writen, spelled, and generaly put together, at this point. However, it is also the most updated version to unfortunately. If anyone has a sugestion as to what I should change Please say so, and i would be delighted to listen to your imput.
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Post by HCMBrainCandy on Dec 20, 2003 12:59:53 GMT -6
Huh?
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Post by MOHC TheGirl on Dec 20, 2003 18:13:33 GMT -6
Dear Swanson...
You know I think it's a bit much for my taste. althoug I really like the prak business. It was amusing..
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Post by The Admin on Dec 28, 2003 17:27:32 GMT -6
Swanson, I read you story...
For one terrible moment I was convinced that the demon-thingies were the protagonists....
But then Prox showed up, so everything's all right.
Besides being a bit graphic, it's a wonderful, humorous story thus far... Do finish it!
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Post by MOHC TheGirl on Dec 28, 2003 18:39:30 GMT -6
I still think it's a bit graphic....
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Post by Swanson on Dec 28, 2003 23:54:25 GMT -6
I havent even gotten graphic yet, i don't hve the ability, but i will, any way, here is the rest of my story thus far...
The rest, after a mild shock that this man striped to his graying tidy-whities, was imaginable, finally Prak mananged to get a passage from the conductor to his next destination in exchange for silence on the matter. Prak walked his way back up to the front of the train. He climbed in the compartement for the conductors. It was a quaint little setting. A very small fridge stuffed to the bursting point with meat, a small set of cupboards filled with a wide assortment of plastic dishes and breads. Finally a microwave, set above the freezer, and a twin matress with sheets and blanketss against the far wall. Sleeping there was a small man, of medium wieght and a dark complextion. Prak liked the man, he had feelings about every one, and he knew this man was a quiet and kind man. Prak climed in, set his suitcase on the opposite wall and rested his back against the freezer. It had been a long day, and he was tired, he fiquired that he would learn the identity of the other man when the mexican came back. He closed his eyes and was soon asleep. The mexican didn't take a long time to reach the locomotive and when he did, he saw Prak and believed that he must have woken up his partner, who conducted the train when he needed a break to sleep. He beleived that they had been introduced and that his friend was comfortable with the man. This was great mistake, for all the sleeping mans kind demeanor, he was deathly afraid of being kidnaped and sold as a slave in Switzerland, or sold as a stock animal to the canableistic tribes of finnland. So it came to pass that when he awoke about 12 hours latter, the man, pablo, saw a stranger sitting next to him. He saw the shadowed form of another man conducting the train, and remembering that his partner had left the train the previous night, to see what he had hit. Pablo then deduced that one of the secret slave agents of Switzerland had killed his friend, and now they had taken over his train and were taking him to thier secret depot, in Oaxaca, because that was close to thier homeland, he thought. His fears were confirmed when he saw the sign pass overhead that read "Bienvenidos a ViejoHermosa". He knew this to be a large city even farther east than Oaxaca. As the sign passed, the sun glared in his blood shot eyes, and he was driven into a rage. Before Prak or the mexican realized he was awake he had grabed the nearest weapon he could find, which was an empty tequila bottle and smashed it over Prak's head. Prak, half stunned at being hit, and half stunned because of the hit, reached for the man. Prak missed the man and felt a searing pain as Pablo forced the broken bottle haft into prak's arm. Now fully enraged Prak reached with the other hand and found the mans neck. He squeezed and followed the man back into the corner of the small compartment where he started to strangle the man to death. The mexican, hearing the tinkling of glass looked over in time to see the bottle haft enter prak's out stretched arm and come out the other side. He heard the crack as prak twisted his arm away and broke off the glass. He finally came out of his hypnotic state as Prak found Pablo's throat. He lept forward and grabed the pistol he kept with him for times like these. Prak felt the mans strength ebbing, he planned to see to it that the man went unconcious, and just as he was doing so he felt a pressure at the back of his head followed by a click. He let go of pablo who would now likely retain his recent state of conciousness untill he drank himself into oblivioun again. He dropped his hands to the matress and said to the mexican standing behind him that he wasn't going to hurt his friend but incompasitate him untill he could find out what in the hell was going on.
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Post by Swanson on Dec 28, 2003 23:55:28 GMT -6
The mexican hearing Prak's words remembered that pablo was always paranoid after drinking so much, and remembered how he had assumed that they had introduced himself. Several seconds later he put all the pieces together, Pablo had awoken with a terrible hang over and paranoia, and seen a stranger siting next to him. He had probably grabed his vodka bottle in order to defend himself against the canibalist tribe members of Scandinavia. From there he guessed that his passenger had reached for pablo and pablo had stabed him with the broken bottle. Prak felt the barrel of the pistol move from the back of his head and heard an other click. "Okay essay, you tell me what in the hell just happened" the mexican said. Prak told the man what had happened, while Pablo tried to regain a little breath. He kept wheezing as if he wanted to add something, but found his voice was gone. "Okay, okay, I see, it just what I thought," the mexican said, when Prak was finished, "He's just a little scared around new comers, hey, how's your arm?" Prak made the mistake of showing the man his arm, exept for the glass still protruding from his arm, and the blood on his shirt, you wouldn't have been able to tell that he had just been wounded. The skin had sealed and healed it self, all along the glass, as if it was natural for glass to be imbedded in ones arm. "What the hell?!" the mexican managed to splutter. "What kinda freak are you", and without thinking grabbed the glass and pulled. "OW!" was all Prak could think to say. Yet the glass remained in place, so the man grabed the glass and yanked with all this strength. This time the glass came out. Prak had something to say about the searing pain in his arm as if, and quite actualy someone was tearing a gaping hole in his arm, "Arghhhhh, OHH, you son of a, oh nutsimwood this hurts!" "What the hell is wrong with you!?" "that's my bloody arm you imbicile!" Prak screamed. The mexican wasn't even listening to prak but staring in amazement at the hole that was now closing in praks arm. The man made a quick decition, he stoped the train and forced prak out. For the rest of his days, that man would never see something that frightened him so much, exept his grandmothers feet, but that was a different kind of terror. Prak, after being forced out of his ride, sat down on the road and thought. Saranja kept relatively quite, just mumbling things about not a very nice persons, and wetbacks, and thier relations with thier mothers, and about how that illigitimately spawned child should decompose in a pit of everlasting flames. Prak decided that he should probably find somewhere better be, and so he follwed the train tracks back untill he found a good place in the city to rest. In the city prak watched people come and go, a mother and her child, an bus driver, a pilot, a butcher, and a produce vendor. Then Prak was struck with a sudden Idea. He stood up and stomped over to the nearest run down hotel. He stepped through the warped doorway and entered. At the clerks desk sat a very fat and ugly mexican woman with her hair in a greasy bun. After some signalling that ended in the transfer of money, and a smile aimed at prak, he cringed at the wretched womans disfigured smile and walked over to thier telephone. There was a telephone book atatched and Prak found the number he wanted. He dialed it and got the information he needed. He walked for an hour to get to his destination, a supply store for the Black-hound bussing company and spoke with the man there. "No,no,no," Prak said to the man, "I lost my I.D., it was in my pants, and those I left in the hotel." The clerk leered up at him with this beady eyes. They were standing in the crambed bleak Black-hound uniform supply closet, which smelled of vanilla and moth balls, arguing about how prak could prove he was an employee, and consequently get a new I.D. card and uniform. "okay, but you have to pay me in cash," the man said with a grin. "Fine," Prak said, relieved to find that the man only wanted a bribe, and wouldn't actually do something to investigate whether or not Prak was an employee. Prak paid the man $120 for the $60 uniform and I.D. They steped into a square concrete room with different colored walls that prak could hardly see because of all the janitorial equipment stored there. "Okay senor, up against the wall, I'm so glad you wanted a pink background on your I.D. Prak did as he was told, and the short gangly man produced a camera, clicked and went back into the desk at the front of the store. "Okay, senor Jorge Benito Alaquin'' the man said as he handed Prak his new I.D., prak scowled, prepared to make a complaint and thought better of it. "The changing room is where you just came out of, what a surprise, eh?" the clerk said. Prak went back into the custodial closet/foto booth/changing room/beer supply and put on his new uniform. Sanaja glanced down at his ugly uniform. Every thing from the Blue and grey stiped hat, down to his blue shirt and brown pants. Well, Prak thought as he scrated himself though the wool oven that was his uniform, "at least I still have my shoes". Saranja made a noise of disgust and turned into a kitten. "well, what are you waiting for, put me in your luggage case!" she said. Prak obliged, with a heart filled with sorrow of another leg of thier journey spent alone with no one watching his back. "Oh well" he muttered and made his way over to the bus station across the street. "Hi", he said to the ticket sales girl, "I'm new here, and I..." Prak stoped and looked at the smiling young lady, "you don't speak a word of english do you", he asked The girl continued to smile, "your mother is a sleeper and i ate the bunions off her feet" Prak stated with a smile and in a cheery voice. The girl continued to smile, and nod. ?Quein aqui habla ingles? Prak yelled. A man from the back came out. Hello, he said, how can I help you. Prak expaned to the man that he was new to this area and had to pick up a bus in Calkini. "Ahh", said the man and with a frown said "let me see your I.D." "Prak showed the man his I.d. and the man said, "this doesn't look like you, what are you playing at!" Prak remembering business courtesy took back his I.D. put twenty dollars under it, handed it back to the man and said, "here, look in the sun, its just the wrong lighting..." The man walked out into the sun, looked at the bill on the back of the I.D. was satisfied. "oh, yeah, now I see, sorry senor, here you go, and handed Prak his I.D. back, minus the twenty dollar bill. "Okay, you have to wait untill noon, then the next bus going to Dzitbalche is leaving, that very close to Calkini". "Great, thanks," prak said to the man, "i'll do that". So, Prak waited for a while, and true to the paid mans word, a bus leaving for Dzitbalche arrived. Prak Greeted the driver and told him that he would be riding with him untill he reached his destination. "Hmm" the driver said, "how do I know I can trust you?" He asked, Prak, realizing what the man wanted grabed a five dollar bill from his pocket put it in his hand and said, "I offer you my word as a gentlemen, I am trust worthy, please accept me". Prak then extended the hand with the money in it and held his hand out to the man, who shook it and pocketed the money. "well, you look pretty trustworthy to me, he said, and let prak onto his bus. "This is getting quite expensive", he muttered angrily to himself.
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Post by beanababe on Jan 2, 2004 22:28:41 GMT -6
Huh...that's really quite good, and long...wow I give you a lot of credit for writting all that. I've always wanted to write something but I never was motivated enough.
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Post by ionix on Jan 9, 2004 9:30:12 GMT -6
Hey I didn't read it, but i guess it's okay..
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Post by The Admin on Jan 10, 2004 21:21:06 GMT -6
You still didn't finish though...
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Post by Swanson on Jan 10, 2004 22:32:21 GMT -6
huh? why would I end it at only like twelve pages?
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Post by The Admin on Jan 11, 2004 17:00:29 GMT -6
So I could read it in a half hour, obviously
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Post by Swanson on Jan 11, 2004 17:40:49 GMT -6
hmmm, that could be aranged, a condenced version, is that what you want?
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Post by The Admin on Jan 11, 2004 19:32:45 GMT -6
No, long versions are better, it's just that they take time to read
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Post by Monkeymeep237 on Dec 17, 2004 9:22:29 GMT -6
Meep
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JerOD that is called JerOD
Guest
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Post by JerOD that is called JerOD on Feb 9, 2005 10:17:43 GMT -6
PIE WILL DIE!!! PIE WILL DIE!!! PIE WILL DIE!!!
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Post by newyorkpattie on Feb 9, 2005 21:04:54 GMT -6
don't even go there JerOD....
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Post by JerOD on Feb 11, 2005 10:07:31 GMT -6
PIE WILL DIE!!! PIE WILL DIE!!! PIE WILL DIE!!! PIE WILL DIE!!! PIE WILL DIE!!! PIE WILL DIE!!! PIE WILL DIE!!!
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Post by newyorkpattie on Feb 11, 2005 18:10:21 GMT -6
GO DIE GO DIE GO DIE GO DIE GO DIE GO DIE
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Post by JerOD on Feb 12, 2005 11:42:51 GMT -6
(sings on a high "G" or three ledger lines above bass clef) NO
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Post by newyorkpattie on Feb 14, 2005 20:32:43 GMT -6
you mean you just yelled it in your obnoxious and squeaky voice...
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Post by JerOD on Feb 16, 2005 7:46:26 GMT -6
No, if the circumstances allow, I can actually hit a high G without squeaking, cracking, or making that one weird noise that I had not previously heard and I'm not sure what it would be called. If the circumstances allow, I can hit an A above that with my chest voice, but no higher. I'm not sure what my range is with just my head voice, but it's higher than that A.
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Post by newyorkpattie on Feb 16, 2005 14:39:32 GMT -6
I really don't care.
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Post by zoel on Mar 13, 2005 17:12:50 GMT -6
At which point both Andrew and Logan turned on the interlopers. The combined force of Andrew's giant armada and Logan's army of small yellow gnats was bearly enough to over come the sheer maddness and imfamy of the invaders but at last they triumphed. Logan invited Andrew to a grand banquet there to celebrate their victory over Sarah and Jerrod. He served only green vegetables, though, so Worlin starved to death and died. I RULE ALL
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Post by newyorkpattie on Mar 15, 2005 23:27:51 GMT -6
why didn't you kill JerOD?
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Post by zoel on Mar 18, 2005 19:48:41 GMT -6
I think I did, but this was supposed to be on the Genius Wars thread anyways.
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Post by newyorkpattie on Mar 19, 2005 21:48:18 GMT -6
so JerOD isn't dead in "Swanson's Story"
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Post by zoel on Mar 19, 2005 22:54:58 GMT -6
Swanson's story doesn't even have JerOD in it.
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