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Competition Get your Wasteland #1 keys here! Short Story Competition
- Thread starter DarkUnderlord
- Start date
- Joined
- Jun 18, 2002
- Messages
- 28,357
This competition will close next Tuesday the 26 Nov.
Remember, we have loads of keys up for grabs! You wouldn't want to not enter only to regret missing out on a classic 1989 RPG.
Remember, we have loads of keys up for grabs! You wouldn't want to not enter only to regret missing out on a classic 1989 RPG.
DefJam101
Arcane
A Day in the Life of DarkUnderlord
or: A Postmodern Examination of Self-referentiality in the Shameless Pursuit of Keycodes
"Is there a minimum wordcount in place for a story to qualify for a key?" DefJam asked.
"No, I don't think so," said DarkUnderlord.
FIN
or: A Postmodern Examination of Self-referentiality in the Shameless Pursuit of Keycodes
"Is there a minimum wordcount in place for a story to qualify for a key?" DefJam asked.
"No, I don't think so," said DarkUnderlord.
FIN
Epilogue Seven Times
"Dad. I'm home."
"Welcome back, Alice. Dinner's by the table."
"Tuna wrap again?"
"Yes."
"...okay."
"Daaaaad!"
"What is it now?"
"Why no honey mustard sauce?!"
"Sorry, I... I forgot!"
"Daaad!"
"WHAT?"
"You forgot the cheddar cheese!"
"..."
Yeah. I fucked up.
I was too selfish.
Everything I did was stupid.
I should've stayed alone, forever alone.
No one will be hurt and no one...
*thud*
Is the ceiling leaking again? Droplets on my Android pad?
What's... this warm thing?
Tears?
My vision's getting blurry...
If only I...
"I'm sorry, dad. Please don't cry."
I look up, finding our daughter looking down at my form slumped by the sofa, a half-idle Android pad on my lap.
"No. It's not your fault, Alice."
I hugged her. Hard. The pad clatters to the floor. I care not.
"It's never your fault. Only mine. Mine and mine alone."
I gotta get up for her sake. This isn't right.
I tuck her in at night, and went back to the all too familiar door next to the kitchen.
I fished around my pants pocket, looking for that ever familiar metallic piece.
It's not there...
Of course. It's not.
It's always in my wallet's coin pouch.
I return to the lock and gave it a quick jab and twist.
*Clack*
The full moon greeted me.
Bloodstains on the wall.
The mattress on the floor.
The untouched tupperware boxes, full of old clothes.
And on the chair itself, a familiar-looking white shirt lays ,a blazing basketball printed on its back.
'Try not to get this dirty. It's my favourite shirt,'
Next to the chair lays my ever-reliable companion. Currently depowered.
I think I still paid the internet bills for Alice's school projects.
So ... it's ready. Just waiting for me.
I push the window open, noting the half broken bamboo stick poking out, remnants of a laundry gone bad.
Yes.
I pressed the power button and slumped on the chair.
A cloud of dust greeted me as the LCD screen lights up accompanied by the spinning blades of the internal fans.
I coughed and rubbed my eyes as the dust takes its effect on me.
When my vision cleared, the all black desktop, punctuated by icons greeted me, offering me escape from reality.
I knew where to go.
Chrome obeys.
I hit the letter R, knowing Chrome will do the rest.
http://rpgcodex.net/
I hit the enter key.
It's still alive.
The shoutbox.
The General Discussion.
The Infinitron brofist harvesting section.
The Drama Feedback.
And most importantly. The Playground.
A glance on the top right hand corner confirmed over 100 alerts.
This feels like home.
Suddenly the silence is gone.
The hollow existence filled with many potential activities.
I don't have to go outside.
This is where I wanted to be.
An involuntary smile escape my lips.
What am I doing?
In the excitement, I pushed the mouse too hard and collided with a nearly object. One of the old pill bottles. Hunger suppressants, gastric medicine, I know not.
*clack*
I looked down at the minor interruption and froze.
It's her.
Time stopped.
It's really her.
I look at the dusty mattress and see her naked visage, fear in her eyes.
"No, bro. Anything but that." LundB moans.
....
To my horror, I see the me 8 years ago. Standing with his- our member erect.
"It's irreversible. The gender transformation is permanent. Ku ku ku, you've also lost your alpha strength. And now I'm the man, and you're the woman."
Stop.
"No plz"
She's right. Stop it.
'Ku ku ku, please beg more. I like it when my victims struggle. Now look into my evil eye and obey, white one."
NO, YOU WILL NOT TAKE HER!
Everything went white.
A blazing pain enveloped my right first.
A dull 'ow' escaped my lips.
I realized that I just punched the wall.
I must be losing it.
My hands shook as I withdrew them.
This is too much.
The door to the room suddenly opens, flooding it with light.
'Dad? Are you alright?'
Fuck.
'What's this room? Why the storeroom has a computer?'
'........'
'It's old too, it must be mom's, right?'
I shook my head.
'But I thought you said you hate computers?'
I gave her a blank stare. She doesn't know the truth.
I can continue lying to her. It's okay. She doesn't need to know.
But will it fix anything? Sighing, I look at the full moon outside and suddenly see her face smiling at me.
Should I?
She nods. So beautiful, just like Alice.
'Alice.'
'Yes'
'Daddy used to play a LOT of games.'
'Oh. You do?'
'Yes.'
'Turn based, or real time?'
'Both.'
'Action, RPG, RTS?'
'All. Even dating games.'
'Next gen?'
'Popamole.'
'Wow! Show me some games dad! Please?'
'Well, it's only 8 PM...Wanna see my Bloodbowl team?'
'Sure!'
'Wait don't sit there, it's dus-'
Too late. She plopped herself on the chair.
'Rpgcodex? What's this dad? Friends of yours?'
'Ummmm...'
'Your nickname's RK47?'
'Hahaha.. yeah. Stupid huh?'
'Dad, they wanna talk to you on the shoutbox, see?'
'Yeah they're great friends. But tonight, let's spend some quality time together.'
I picked her up and set her gently down on my lap.
"I'll show you how to play humans," I grinned as I open the team management window.
"Ahahah, I recognize these names from the shoutbox. You named them after your RPGCodex friends?" she giggles.
"Yeah."
"That's so cool!"
"I... I actually named one of the players after your mom."
"Which one is it?"
"Take a guess."
There's no way she's gonna get it right.
"Umm.....this one."
My mouth opened wide.
"I always hear your speaking in your sleep. You must really miss her that much, huh?"
"I...mmblb"
She puts her palm on my mouth.
"No need. I know. Let's play, dad."
"OK. Let's bowl, kid."
I'm back. And I'm no longer alone.
-FIN
"Dad. I'm home."
"Welcome back, Alice. Dinner's by the table."
"Tuna wrap again?"
"Yes."
"...okay."
"Daaaaad!"
"What is it now?"
"Why no honey mustard sauce?!"
"Sorry, I... I forgot!"
"Daaad!"
"WHAT?"
"You forgot the cheddar cheese!"
"..."
Yeah. I fucked up.
I was too selfish.
Everything I did was stupid.
I should've stayed alone, forever alone.
No one will be hurt and no one...
*thud*
Is the ceiling leaking again? Droplets on my Android pad?
What's... this warm thing?
Tears?
My vision's getting blurry...
If only I...
"I'm sorry, dad. Please don't cry."
I look up, finding our daughter looking down at my form slumped by the sofa, a half-idle Android pad on my lap.
"No. It's not your fault, Alice."
I hugged her. Hard. The pad clatters to the floor. I care not.
"It's never your fault. Only mine. Mine and mine alone."
I gotta get up for her sake. This isn't right.
I tuck her in at night, and went back to the all too familiar door next to the kitchen.
I fished around my pants pocket, looking for that ever familiar metallic piece.
It's not there...
Of course. It's not.
It's always in my wallet's coin pouch.
I return to the lock and gave it a quick jab and twist.
*Clack*
The full moon greeted me.
Bloodstains on the wall.
The mattress on the floor.
The untouched tupperware boxes, full of old clothes.
And on the chair itself, a familiar-looking white shirt lays ,a blazing basketball printed on its back.
'Try not to get this dirty. It's my favourite shirt,'
Next to the chair lays my ever-reliable companion. Currently depowered.
I think I still paid the internet bills for Alice's school projects.
So ... it's ready. Just waiting for me.
I push the window open, noting the half broken bamboo stick poking out, remnants of a laundry gone bad.
Yes.
I pressed the power button and slumped on the chair.
A cloud of dust greeted me as the LCD screen lights up accompanied by the spinning blades of the internal fans.
I coughed and rubbed my eyes as the dust takes its effect on me.
When my vision cleared, the all black desktop, punctuated by icons greeted me, offering me escape from reality.
I knew where to go.
Chrome obeys.
I hit the letter R, knowing Chrome will do the rest.
http://rpgcodex.net/
I hit the enter key.
It's still alive.
The shoutbox.
The General Discussion.
The Infinitron brofist harvesting section.
The Drama Feedback.
And most importantly. The Playground.
A glance on the top right hand corner confirmed over 100 alerts.
This feels like home.
Suddenly the silence is gone.
The hollow existence filled with many potential activities.
I don't have to go outside.
This is where I wanted to be.
An involuntary smile escape my lips.
What am I doing?
In the excitement, I pushed the mouse too hard and collided with a nearly object. One of the old pill bottles. Hunger suppressants, gastric medicine, I know not.
*clack*
I looked down at the minor interruption and froze.
It's her.
Time stopped.
It's really her.
I look at the dusty mattress and see her naked visage, fear in her eyes.
"No, bro. Anything but that." LundB moans.
....
To my horror, I see the me 8 years ago. Standing with his- our member erect.
"It's irreversible. The gender transformation is permanent. Ku ku ku, you've also lost your alpha strength. And now I'm the man, and you're the woman."
Stop.
"No plz"
She's right. Stop it.
'Ku ku ku, please beg more. I like it when my victims struggle. Now look into my evil eye and obey, white one."
NO, YOU WILL NOT TAKE HER!
Everything went white.
A blazing pain enveloped my right first.
A dull 'ow' escaped my lips.
I realized that I just punched the wall.
I must be losing it.
My hands shook as I withdrew them.
This is too much.
The door to the room suddenly opens, flooding it with light.
'Dad? Are you alright?'
Fuck.
'What's this room? Why the storeroom has a computer?'
'........'
'It's old too, it must be mom's, right?'
I shook my head.
'But I thought you said you hate computers?'
I gave her a blank stare. She doesn't know the truth.
I can continue lying to her. It's okay. She doesn't need to know.
But will it fix anything? Sighing, I look at the full moon outside and suddenly see her face smiling at me.
Should I?
She nods. So beautiful, just like Alice.
'Alice.'
'Yes'
'Daddy used to play a LOT of games.'
'Oh. You do?'
'Yes.'
'Turn based, or real time?'
'Both.'
'Action, RPG, RTS?'
'All. Even dating games.'
'Next gen?'
'Popamole.'
'Wow! Show me some games dad! Please?'
'Well, it's only 8 PM...Wanna see my Bloodbowl team?'
'Sure!'
'Wait don't sit there, it's dus-'
Too late. She plopped herself on the chair.
'Rpgcodex? What's this dad? Friends of yours?'
'Ummmm...'
'Your nickname's RK47?'
'Hahaha.. yeah. Stupid huh?'
'Dad, they wanna talk to you on the shoutbox, see?'
'Yeah they're great friends. But tonight, let's spend some quality time together.'
I picked her up and set her gently down on my lap.
"I'll show you how to play humans," I grinned as I open the team management window.
"Ahahah, I recognize these names from the shoutbox. You named them after your RPGCodex friends?" she giggles.
"Yeah."
"That's so cool!"
"I... I actually named one of the players after your mom."
"Which one is it?"
"Take a guess."
There's no way she's gonna get it right.
"Umm.....this one."
My mouth opened wide.
"I always hear your speaking in your sleep. You must really miss her that much, huh?"
"I...mmblb"
She puts her palm on my mouth.
"No need. I know. Let's play, dad."
"OK. Let's bowl, kid."
I'm back. And I'm no longer alone.
-FIN
hoodoo's greatest adventure
"hoodoo?" said hoodoo anxiously.
"It's a mystery" replied the nonchalant ghost.
"hoodoo..." hooddoo mumbled to the empty room.
THE END
"hoodoo?" said hoodoo anxiously.
"It's a mystery" replied the nonchalant ghost.
"hoodoo..." hooddoo mumbled to the empty room.
THE END
It was midnight, the sun rising on the horizon.
A young old men, standing up, seated on a wooden rock, said in silence:
Mom, I want to be a dragon.
A young old men, standing up, seated on a wooden rock, said in silence:
Mom, I want to be a dragon.
Last edited:
Hoodoo
It gets passed around.
- Joined
- Jun 5, 2009
- Messages
- 6,700
i dont get it am i me
Monty
Arcane
A Day in the Life - 3259 AD
The tips of his fingers whitened as pressure on the bow increased. The world had receded, all that was left was the rhythm of his heart and the antelope in his sights. One of its heads twisted in his direction and he held his breath, but after a second or two it went back to grazing with the others.
"One with life, bringer of death" he mouthed silently, repeating the mantra the old woodsman had taught him.
A twitch of his finger and the arrow of metallic fibre sped straight and true, piercing both hearts and dropping his prey in a heartbeat. Perfect shot.
He spat into the sand in gratitude and wearily got to his feet, brushing off fronds from the purple fern he had used as cover.
***
The butchering was swift and skilful, a far cry from his first efforts nearly two years ago. His knife's keen edge needed sharpening once again, he noticed, and there wasn't much blade left to sharpen. It was wearing out, like all the other remnants of civilisation in this decaying world.
He'd just got a fire going when the snap of a twig alerted him to an approaching presence. He raised a burning branch to fend off a dreaded fretlizard, the cunning and relentless apex predator of these scrublands. But if it had been a fretlizard he would already be dead, he realised - he'd been too preoccupied in the excitement of fresh meat, like a fool in his first week in the wilds.
And it was indeed a human figure who emerged from the bush, arms raised in peaceful salutation. The first human he had seen in months.
"Greetings" the new arrival called, casting a hungry eye over the cuts of meat besides the fire. "Willing to trade for a portion of your meal? I have smoking weeds, medicinal herbs and a bottle of grain liquor I'd gladly share for a place at your fire tonight. Been a while since I ran into anyone, talking to myself is getting old."
"Sure" he replied, projecting an impression of relief and acceptance as he placed the branch back on the fire, but keeping his free hand near his knife sheath. He hadn't survived this long by trusting in friendly words. "Name's Martin, Martin Underdark. Friends used to call me Lord", he said. "Yeah, it's a long story" he added, noticing the raised eyebrow at the strange nickname.
"Friends huh? Been years since I had any of those. Anyway, I'm Menckenstein. Just call me Menck."
***
"Think of it as multi-headed cow" he joked, offering a cut of the juicy meat to Menck. They both chuckled at the reference to the beasts of legend, beloved by the aristocracy in centuries past but extinct for generations.
"Tastes like heaven, whatever it is" said Menckenstein, juice dripping down his chin. "Haven't had meat in ages. I'm not much of a hunter really, more of a herbalist."
Martin glanced over the animal skins Menck was wearing and the axe-shaped bulge in his pack, resolving to go easy on Menck's herbs later on. This man was not who he seemed, noone survived this long as a harmless herbalist.
"So where are you headed Menck? You settled or going somewhere in particular?"
"Going East" he replied, casually indicating the arid region opening out from their valley. The same direction Martin was going. "Left the West coast when the last harbour was overrun. You, Lord?"
"I'm also going East, once I get some more supplies stashed away. That desert looks a handful."
They sat in silence as they finished their meal, Martin's thoughts turning once again to the events which had changed their world. The dark armies flooding out of the toxic swamps of the South, hewing down everyone in their path with crooked blades called 'machetes'. The prosperous cities of the North, grown fat and complacent after centuries of peace, stood no chance - the few weapons of the law enforcement officers soon ran out of ammunition, barely making a dent in the savage multitudes. And as the conquering armies feasted on the ruins of civilisation a few survivors fled into the wilderness, doomed to battle vicious predators and scarce food in a desperate struggle for survival.
Martin sighed, forcibly bringing himself back to the present and his unexpected companion. Menckenstein had a parcel of herbs on his lap and was packing his first pipe of the evening.
***
A rustle of movement brought him fully awake, battling the slight drowsiness brought on by the smoking weed. It must have been potent indeed as he had subtly avoided inhaling any great quantity, letting Menckenstein think he was succumbing to the sweet smoke of relaxation. Barely opening his eyes he sneaked a glance across the remains of the fire as the shadowy figure rose from his sleeping mat, axe gleaming in the moonlight.
He waited until the last possible moment, with Menckenstein's axe swinging down towards his neck. Rolling suddenly aside, he slashed his hunting knife across the nearest achilles tendon, then jumped away and seized the hammer he'd concealed in the long grass. Menckenstein screeched as his leg gave way, a surprisingly feminine, feline sound in the still night, then hacked desperately at Martin with his axe.
Martin easily avoided the unbalanced attack and brought his hammer crashing down on Menckenstein's skull. Two more brutal swipes and it was over, his would be assassin lying motionless in a pool of his own brain matter.
He left Menckenstein where he fell and moved over to his pack, eager to claim the spoils of victory. Perhaps a proper pipe would be a suitable way to mark the occasion.
***
The Sun beat down mercilessly, mocking his hopes of surviving the desert crossing. After 4 days of heat and pain he was down to his last few sips of water, then possibly 24 hours until he died. But would death be so bad? Could hell be worse than his existence here? Or was this hell?
Yet the dreams drove him onwards, of a haven of sanctuary and plenty on a hill overlooking the edge of the desert. Visions which came to him as he snatched a few hours of restless sleep, visions which had led him to abandon his valley and risk everything.
And there on the horizon, finally, something appeared which was neither sand nor mirage. Could it be.... a tree? He shuffled forward with renewed vigour, thoughts of fruit and water parting his cracked lips in a grim smile.
***
He gazed in frustration at the gnarled trunk of the palm tree. No water, little shade and one stunted fruit. And below the tree stood a gravestone with a crude carving "Here lies Bruticis, last of the Mensans." The carving looked recent.
Draped over the back of the gravestone was a white T-shirt, incongruous in the desolate surroundings, with an illustration of a human brain on the front. Was this a message from a vengeful God reminding him of Menckenstein's fate at his hands? Or a blessing to reward him for his progress? Martin considered the shirt, compared the warm skins he was wearing, then discarded them and put it on.
It felt good. It felt right and just, like he was born to wear it. He grabbed the fruit off the palm and sliced it open, but it contained only the husk of a dead scorpion. It crunched in his mouth as he ate it.
***
Strength giving out, pain too much, must keep going. Death on his heels. And finally there, within reach, a hill. The end of the desert. The place he had dreamed of.
He fell to his knees and began crawling, crawling towards his salvation.
***
Hours later the latest hallucination disappeared and he realised he was no longer crawling through sand, but bumping his knees on a rocky slope. And ahead a smooth cylinder climbed above an outcropping, two black tubes moving around to point in his direction. Then the silence was shattered.
"Vault OS tracking" blared the loudest voice he had ever heard, in a cold emotionless tone. "Suspect covered by defense turrets 4 and 5,"
A hiss of static, then a different voice in an unusual accent.
"No chance, manboon sapiens" it drawled, "You have 30 seconds to get off my land."
"One with life, bringer of death" he mouthed silently, repeating the mantra the old woodsman had taught him.
A twitch of his finger and the arrow of metallic fibre sped straight and true, piercing both hearts and dropping his prey in a heartbeat. Perfect shot.
He spat into the sand in gratitude and wearily got to his feet, brushing off fronds from the purple fern he had used as cover.
***
The butchering was swift and skilful, a far cry from his first efforts nearly two years ago. His knife's keen edge needed sharpening once again, he noticed, and there wasn't much blade left to sharpen. It was wearing out, like all the other remnants of civilisation in this decaying world.
He'd just got a fire going when the snap of a twig alerted him to an approaching presence. He raised a burning branch to fend off a dreaded fretlizard, the cunning and relentless apex predator of these scrublands. But if it had been a fretlizard he would already be dead, he realised - he'd been too preoccupied in the excitement of fresh meat, like a fool in his first week in the wilds.
And it was indeed a human figure who emerged from the bush, arms raised in peaceful salutation. The first human he had seen in months.
"Greetings" the new arrival called, casting a hungry eye over the cuts of meat besides the fire. "Willing to trade for a portion of your meal? I have smoking weeds, medicinal herbs and a bottle of grain liquor I'd gladly share for a place at your fire tonight. Been a while since I ran into anyone, talking to myself is getting old."
"Sure" he replied, projecting an impression of relief and acceptance as he placed the branch back on the fire, but keeping his free hand near his knife sheath. He hadn't survived this long by trusting in friendly words. "Name's Martin, Martin Underdark. Friends used to call me Lord", he said. "Yeah, it's a long story" he added, noticing the raised eyebrow at the strange nickname.
"Friends huh? Been years since I had any of those. Anyway, I'm Menckenstein. Just call me Menck."
***
"Think of it as multi-headed cow" he joked, offering a cut of the juicy meat to Menck. They both chuckled at the reference to the beasts of legend, beloved by the aristocracy in centuries past but extinct for generations.
"Tastes like heaven, whatever it is" said Menckenstein, juice dripping down his chin. "Haven't had meat in ages. I'm not much of a hunter really, more of a herbalist."
Martin glanced over the animal skins Menck was wearing and the axe-shaped bulge in his pack, resolving to go easy on Menck's herbs later on. This man was not who he seemed, noone survived this long as a harmless herbalist.
"So where are you headed Menck? You settled or going somewhere in particular?"
"Going East" he replied, casually indicating the arid region opening out from their valley. The same direction Martin was going. "Left the West coast when the last harbour was overrun. You, Lord?"
"I'm also going East, once I get some more supplies stashed away. That desert looks a handful."
They sat in silence as they finished their meal, Martin's thoughts turning once again to the events which had changed their world. The dark armies flooding out of the toxic swamps of the South, hewing down everyone in their path with crooked blades called 'machetes'. The prosperous cities of the North, grown fat and complacent after centuries of peace, stood no chance - the few weapons of the law enforcement officers soon ran out of ammunition, barely making a dent in the savage multitudes. And as the conquering armies feasted on the ruins of civilisation a few survivors fled into the wilderness, doomed to battle vicious predators and scarce food in a desperate struggle for survival.
Martin sighed, forcibly bringing himself back to the present and his unexpected companion. Menckenstein had a parcel of herbs on his lap and was packing his first pipe of the evening.
***
A rustle of movement brought him fully awake, battling the slight drowsiness brought on by the smoking weed. It must have been potent indeed as he had subtly avoided inhaling any great quantity, letting Menckenstein think he was succumbing to the sweet smoke of relaxation. Barely opening his eyes he sneaked a glance across the remains of the fire as the shadowy figure rose from his sleeping mat, axe gleaming in the moonlight.
He waited until the last possible moment, with Menckenstein's axe swinging down towards his neck. Rolling suddenly aside, he slashed his hunting knife across the nearest achilles tendon, then jumped away and seized the hammer he'd concealed in the long grass. Menckenstein screeched as his leg gave way, a surprisingly feminine, feline sound in the still night, then hacked desperately at Martin with his axe.
Martin easily avoided the unbalanced attack and brought his hammer crashing down on Menckenstein's skull. Two more brutal swipes and it was over, his would be assassin lying motionless in a pool of his own brain matter.
He left Menckenstein where he fell and moved over to his pack, eager to claim the spoils of victory. Perhaps a proper pipe would be a suitable way to mark the occasion.
***
The Sun beat down mercilessly, mocking his hopes of surviving the desert crossing. After 4 days of heat and pain he was down to his last few sips of water, then possibly 24 hours until he died. But would death be so bad? Could hell be worse than his existence here? Or was this hell?
Yet the dreams drove him onwards, of a haven of sanctuary and plenty on a hill overlooking the edge of the desert. Visions which came to him as he snatched a few hours of restless sleep, visions which had led him to abandon his valley and risk everything.
And there on the horizon, finally, something appeared which was neither sand nor mirage. Could it be.... a tree? He shuffled forward with renewed vigour, thoughts of fruit and water parting his cracked lips in a grim smile.
***
He gazed in frustration at the gnarled trunk of the palm tree. No water, little shade and one stunted fruit. And below the tree stood a gravestone with a crude carving "Here lies Bruticis, last of the Mensans." The carving looked recent.
Draped over the back of the gravestone was a white T-shirt, incongruous in the desolate surroundings, with an illustration of a human brain on the front. Was this a message from a vengeful God reminding him of Menckenstein's fate at his hands? Or a blessing to reward him for his progress? Martin considered the shirt, compared the warm skins he was wearing, then discarded them and put it on.
It felt good. It felt right and just, like he was born to wear it. He grabbed the fruit off the palm and sliced it open, but it contained only the husk of a dead scorpion. It crunched in his mouth as he ate it.
***
Strength giving out, pain too much, must keep going. Death on his heels. And finally there, within reach, a hill. The end of the desert. The place he had dreamed of.
He fell to his knees and began crawling, crawling towards his salvation.
***
Hours later the latest hallucination disappeared and he realised he was no longer crawling through sand, but bumping his knees on a rocky slope. And ahead a smooth cylinder climbed above an outcropping, two black tubes moving around to point in his direction. Then the silence was shattered.
"Vault OS tracking" blared the loudest voice he had ever heard, in a cold emotionless tone. "Suspect covered by defense turrets 4 and 5,"
A hiss of static, then a different voice in an unusual accent.
"No chance, manboon sapiens" it drawled, "You have 30 seconds to get off my land."
Last edited:
a cut of domestic sheep prime
Guest
The Story Of How Wasteland Christmas Came Early
There once was a charming young lad named lambchop19.
One day he looked in his inbox and found a Steam key for the classic CRPG called Wasteland.
He smiled and was grateful to have gotten one, despite being an admitted shitposter...
Then he put on a pink tutu and went, "Tralalala!"
The End
There once was a charming young lad named lambchop19.
One day he looked in his inbox and found a Steam key for the classic CRPG called Wasteland.
He smiled and was grateful to have gotten one, despite being an admitted shitposter...
Then he put on a pink tutu and went, "Tralalala!"
The End
Gregz
Arcane
White Rabble
One post makes you smarter
And one post kicks you in the balls
And the things that Prosper shows you
Don't make any sense at all
Go ask Cleve Blakemore
'Cause he's ten feet tall
And if you go chasing turn based
And the decline is going to fall
Tell 'em a music loving Dinaric
Has given you the call to
Call Cleve Blakemore:
The mighty 'thal
When the men from Retardo
Get up and tell you where to go
And you've just seen some kind of Tubgirl
And your hand is moving low
Go ask Cleve Blakemore
I think he'll know
When logic and moderation
Have become banhappy troll
And the White Knight is so beta
And the Drag Queen's "off with my head!"
Remember what Andhaira said;
Take your meds
Take your meds
One post makes you smarter
And one post kicks you in the balls
And the things that Prosper shows you
Don't make any sense at all
Go ask Cleve Blakemore
'Cause he's ten feet tall
And if you go chasing turn based
And the decline is going to fall
Tell 'em a music loving Dinaric
Has given you the call to
Call Cleve Blakemore:
The mighty 'thal
When the men from Retardo
Get up and tell you where to go
And you've just seen some kind of Tubgirl
And your hand is moving low
Go ask Cleve Blakemore
I think he'll know
When logic and moderation
Have become banhappy troll
And the White Knight is so beta
And the Drag Queen's "off with my head!"
Remember what Andhaira said;
Take your meds
Take your meds
Last edited:
theSavant
Self-Ejected
- Joined
- Oct 3, 2012
- Messages
- 2,009
Short story which covers most points...
When idonthavetimeforthiscrap woke up this morning the first thing which came to his mind was: "i dont have time for this crap".
Then he went to work. As he arrived the boss tells him: "Glad you've come, here are the 100.000 Excel sheets to process..."
idonthavetimeforthiscrap: "i dont have time for this crap"
boss: "huh?"
idonthavetimeforthiscrap: "I DONT HAVE TIME FOR THIS CRAP! BYE!
As idonthavetimeforthiscrap walked out the office he came by a near monastery. Just at this moment Menckenstein ran out of the doorway, followed by an angry Jaesun shouting: "You filthy bastard! I have found all the sex magazines under your bed!! I bannnnnned you!!!
Menckenstein shouted back: "I don't care!! I'm free, you shitty mod!"
Disturbed from the noise - Trash - who was lying between newspapers under the doorway was awakened. He had a long night in the 24/7 pub of DarkUnderlord and didn't find the way home.
Jaesun almost tumbled over him and angrily kicked him in the butt.
idonthavetimeforthiscrap mumbling: "oh my dear... life sux..."
That was heard from Crooked Bee, who was taking a walk. Phrases like this really set her up: "DON'T SWEAR, THIS IS YOUR LIFE!!!"
Her hormones also played crazy at that time because she was pregnant. It just happened this triggered the baby balloon. "wait...stooop oh ohh oooooh my god... the veins! the baby comes!!"
Crooked Bee: "oh my.... how sweet!!!... I call him Infinitron". However her dumped boyfriend saw this in envy - jumped by and stole the baby to raise him as his own.
idonthavetimeforthiscrap left head shaking wondering why he has so much time for this crap...
When idonthavetimeforthiscrap woke up this morning the first thing which came to his mind was: "i dont have time for this crap".
Then he went to work. As he arrived the boss tells him: "Glad you've come, here are the 100.000 Excel sheets to process..."
idonthavetimeforthiscrap: "i dont have time for this crap"
boss: "huh?"
idonthavetimeforthiscrap: "I DONT HAVE TIME FOR THIS CRAP! BYE!
As idonthavetimeforthiscrap walked out the office he came by a near monastery. Just at this moment Menckenstein ran out of the doorway, followed by an angry Jaesun shouting: "You filthy bastard! I have found all the sex magazines under your bed!! I bannnnnned you!!!
Menckenstein shouted back: "I don't care!! I'm free, you shitty mod!"
Disturbed from the noise - Trash - who was lying between newspapers under the doorway was awakened. He had a long night in the 24/7 pub of DarkUnderlord and didn't find the way home.
Jaesun almost tumbled over him and angrily kicked him in the butt.
idonthavetimeforthiscrap mumbling: "oh my dear... life sux..."
That was heard from Crooked Bee, who was taking a walk. Phrases like this really set her up: "DON'T SWEAR, THIS IS YOUR LIFE!!!"
Her hormones also played crazy at that time because she was pregnant. It just happened this triggered the baby balloon. "wait...stooop oh ohh oooooh my god... the veins! the baby comes!!"
Crooked Bee: "oh my.... how sweet!!!... I call him Infinitron". However her dumped boyfriend saw this in envy - jumped by and stole the baby to raise him as his own.
idonthavetimeforthiscrap left head shaking wondering why he has so much time for this crap...
artakserkso
Educated
- Joined
- Aug 4, 2012
- Messages
- 82
A day in the life of a crooked Bee: this is your life in a day of DarkUnderlord
On a dark'n'stormy Tuesday evening, after half a dozen eponymous cocktails, DU decides that the weather is just right to go on an adventure. He displaces his cobweb-riddled, wispy physique and exits the Outside. That may seem uncanny to a random, observing party until they realize that, peering Inside, one cannot help but notice a perfectly enormous bee outside her home, sat somewhat crookedly in a rocking chair... Playing a banjo like a bo-yo-ss... With her stinger.
As soon as DU steps onto her creaky porch, Bee fixes her piercing gaze on DU's half-dead, half-undead, half-cadaverous eyes.
"Would you like some wheat", she asks.
"Oh, would I... You have no idea", he says, relieved.
After Bee presents him with a half-finished bowl of yoghurt, honey and bird feed, complete with a splintery wooden spoon, DU awkwardly concludes, "Oh. Wheeeeat."
A very long period of silence ensues, only interrupted intermittently by DU's discourteous masticating. Bee does away with that: a deafening "WHY ARE YOU HERE?" nearly makes DU choke on his cutlery.
"Codexia needs us, Bee. Don't you remember... The Purge? How we vanquished the Avatars, who once had drained the life blood of our homeland? How we restored uniformity to a realm plagued by creativity and individuality?", DU whimpers, still partly in shock.
"Indeed we did", Bee replies after a while. She stares gloomily into the darkness, illuminated somewhat by the faint moonlight reflected off of Bee's wings.
"Maybe we should consider doing the same with signatures", DU continues. "We could only allow quotes from yours and mine favorite cRPGs. Or even...". DU trails off as his eyes, or equivalent, suddenly light up. "Predefined posts!"
"Predefined posts?! Are you sure it's not the wheat talking?"
"No, no! Just hear me out. Isn't that precisely what we are fighting for? You know: choices and consequences? One would pick a post from, say, 50 predefined ones, and perhaps get banned for selecting the wrong one. Actually, make it 70! No, a hundred! We could conjure up a few... risqué ones, if we put our minds to it, but none in poor taste. Granted, we may never reach the refined level set by the highly monocled Watch, but we must try to contain all the hoodlums who frequent these noble lands."
Bee, unfazed by DU's mad ramblings, asks with a smug grin, "Tell me, DU, if you came from the Outside In, what is inside my house?". Nervously clenching his jaw, DU cogitates as hard as he can, only to awaken in his bed, sucking on his thumb, with an inexplicable, yet not unbearable hangover.
THE END
On a dark'n'stormy Tuesday evening, after half a dozen eponymous cocktails, DU decides that the weather is just right to go on an adventure. He displaces his cobweb-riddled, wispy physique and exits the Outside. That may seem uncanny to a random, observing party until they realize that, peering Inside, one cannot help but notice a perfectly enormous bee outside her home, sat somewhat crookedly in a rocking chair... Playing a banjo like a bo-yo-ss... With her stinger.
As soon as DU steps onto her creaky porch, Bee fixes her piercing gaze on DU's half-dead, half-undead, half-cadaverous eyes.
"Would you like some wheat", she asks.
"Oh, would I... You have no idea", he says, relieved.
After Bee presents him with a half-finished bowl of yoghurt, honey and bird feed, complete with a splintery wooden spoon, DU awkwardly concludes, "Oh. Wheeeeat."
A very long period of silence ensues, only interrupted intermittently by DU's discourteous masticating. Bee does away with that: a deafening "WHY ARE YOU HERE?" nearly makes DU choke on his cutlery.
"Codexia needs us, Bee. Don't you remember... The Purge? How we vanquished the Avatars, who once had drained the life blood of our homeland? How we restored uniformity to a realm plagued by creativity and individuality?", DU whimpers, still partly in shock.
"Indeed we did", Bee replies after a while. She stares gloomily into the darkness, illuminated somewhat by the faint moonlight reflected off of Bee's wings.
"Maybe we should consider doing the same with signatures", DU continues. "We could only allow quotes from yours and mine favorite cRPGs. Or even...". DU trails off as his eyes, or equivalent, suddenly light up. "Predefined posts!"
"Predefined posts?! Are you sure it's not the wheat talking?"
"No, no! Just hear me out. Isn't that precisely what we are fighting for? You know: choices and consequences? One would pick a post from, say, 50 predefined ones, and perhaps get banned for selecting the wrong one. Actually, make it 70! No, a hundred! We could conjure up a few... risqué ones, if we put our minds to it, but none in poor taste. Granted, we may never reach the refined level set by the highly monocled Watch, but we must try to contain all the hoodlums who frequent these noble lands."
Bee, unfazed by DU's mad ramblings, asks with a smug grin, "Tell me, DU, if you came from the Outside In, what is inside my house?". Nervously clenching his jaw, DU cogitates as hard as he can, only to awaken in his bed, sucking on his thumb, with an inexplicable, yet not unbearable hangover.
THE END
To explain the potential linguistic mish-mash: I watch a lot of American movies, live in Oxford, UK, and English is not my native language.
In case I'm awarded a key: make it GOG, please. 
Last edited:
Telengard
Arcane
In proper Codex tradition, I have taken a single joke and driven it mightily into the ground.
- Joined
- Jun 18, 2002
- Messages
- 28,357
And... entries are closed.
We will sort out winners and keys over the coming days.
We will sort out winners and keys over the coming days.
Clockwork Knight
Arcane
This sudden change in tone killed me
Well, I'm going to include mine anyhow even though it's late. I am in CST -6:00, if that's ok. Just saw this thread last night and wanted to try my hand. I'm sure this was a complete waste of time.
He didn’t really need the archival chip that stored it: all the data on it had been digitized and added to his grandfather’s personal data store years before his father was born. It was just a simple memory storage device that he was told his great-grandfather had cherished. While John had perused the data before and read some of its contents, he just could not see why this was valued. What did my great-grandfather see in it this “dex”? He knew the name of the data store from having seen its contents countless times, but that’s what was written on the side those long years ago, so he called it that as well. Why did someone go through all this trouble for you, he thought, looking at the little data chip.
He got into the cab and headed off to the local university. Currently a modest place, but in its past was a lot to be proud of. At this very university they actually invented the datascope he was on his way to use. About the size of a 20th century microwave, its strength was not trivial matters like extracting data, but in quickly finding patterns in the data itself. It was a unique invention which helped several of that very university’s professors win the Nobel Prize. A few years after World War 4, they demonstrated that the sides, outcome, and aftermath could be predicted by analyzing all news articles twenty years prior to its start. All this came a little too late to save Australia, but it was an incredible advancement in predictive analytics all the same.
The datascope was free to use, but the data output was highly filtered to prevent anyone from profiting from unscrupulous data analysis. For public devices, the data analysis was uploaded to one only after it was analyzed by bored graduate students, the NSA, then the UNSA. Fortunately, their offices were pretty close to each other. Most folks didn’t bother. Besides, the real datascopes cost a fortune, create unfiltered data, and are only owned by the most powerful of men.
It was a quiet Saturday when he walked to the university library. John slipped into one of the extraction rooms and closed the door. Without even pulling the chip out of his pocket, the extraction began and John was greeted with see the familiar 3D block of data hovering before him. Same old images, lines and words caught his eye. John waited. To be sure, something was happening. Slowly the data reassembled itself. First, the information reconstructed itself into a flat line. No more three dimensional array of data. Now it was assembled into a straight line, what appeared to be a timeline of data. He could see the dates ticked off on the line: 12 January 2010, 19 January 2010, 26 January 2010, and it trailed off in both directions. He was half tempted to reach out and scroll to November 2010, absent mindedly remembering something significant that happened on that day, but pulled his hand back. Just let this finish he said to himself.
Then, the timeline shifted. The data began to rise and sink; one great pattern week after week, the data rising with a peak on 12 January 2010, and the data falling into a valley on 19 January 2010. A sine wave of data, stretched out for who knows how long in either direction. It was now constructed in a waveform with all the data peaking one week and then dropping down into a valley the next. Like an old musical recording, he thought.
He skimmed the data. He looked at the peak point on 12 January. It had a point at the top that was labeled “Planescape: Torment.” So much praise under that point, such as awesome, great, incredible, life-altering, and amazing. Must have been something, whatever it was. His eyes wandered over to the valley on 19 January. It was similarly labeled “Planescape: Torment.” Only now the words over that low point were awful, horrible, linear, overrated, and shit. What the hell, he though. He quickly looked at the next peak. 26 January the top point was “Ultima VII” and the praise was similar. Yet, a week later, the same valley and similar damning comments: dated graphics, bad interface, buggy, Iolo OP: it went on, and made less sense the more he read.
He scrolled forward slowly. The pattern repeated, week after week, year after year. Why would my grandfather spend so much time on this foolishness? Praising something then destroying it, over and over. He pulled his hand back like he was stung when the line changed again. A key to the left of the line read simply “General RPG Discussion.” Then, in rapid succession more sine waves appeared: one labeled “General Gaming” with a tighter wavelength, followed by “Adventure Gaming” and “Strategy Gaming”. Twenty three in all running parallel to each other. All with different wavelengths, but all the balanced pattern of reoccurring love and hate.
He started to understand just as the data began to fade out, leaving only the waves. Side by side, each line of a different color. The lines then overlapped into one stream, multicolored and chaotic, but he could not wait for the datascope to do it for him. He impatiently shouted out Play it for me!
The room was filled with beautiful music, of such majesty the likes he had not heard in his life. A swelling masterpiece of sound and sublime poetry caressed his ears. He choked back tears of joy and stretched out his arm, as if to touch the hand of his great-grandfather whose writings became mere notes in this symphony which even now was penetrating the depths of Johns soul! He stiffened. Wait, no. Nope. This music is shit. Pure shit.
He didn’t really need the archival chip that stored it: all the data on it had been digitized and added to his grandfather’s personal data store years before his father was born. It was just a simple memory storage device that he was told his great-grandfather had cherished. While John had perused the data before and read some of its contents, he just could not see why this was valued. What did my great-grandfather see in it this “dex”? He knew the name of the data store from having seen its contents countless times, but that’s what was written on the side those long years ago, so he called it that as well. Why did someone go through all this trouble for you, he thought, looking at the little data chip.
He got into the cab and headed off to the local university. Currently a modest place, but in its past was a lot to be proud of. At this very university they actually invented the datascope he was on his way to use. About the size of a 20th century microwave, its strength was not trivial matters like extracting data, but in quickly finding patterns in the data itself. It was a unique invention which helped several of that very university’s professors win the Nobel Prize. A few years after World War 4, they demonstrated that the sides, outcome, and aftermath could be predicted by analyzing all news articles twenty years prior to its start. All this came a little too late to save Australia, but it was an incredible advancement in predictive analytics all the same.
The datascope was free to use, but the data output was highly filtered to prevent anyone from profiting from unscrupulous data analysis. For public devices, the data analysis was uploaded to one only after it was analyzed by bored graduate students, the NSA, then the UNSA. Fortunately, their offices were pretty close to each other. Most folks didn’t bother. Besides, the real datascopes cost a fortune, create unfiltered data, and are only owned by the most powerful of men.
It was a quiet Saturday when he walked to the university library. John slipped into one of the extraction rooms and closed the door. Without even pulling the chip out of his pocket, the extraction began and John was greeted with see the familiar 3D block of data hovering before him. Same old images, lines and words caught his eye. John waited. To be sure, something was happening. Slowly the data reassembled itself. First, the information reconstructed itself into a flat line. No more three dimensional array of data. Now it was assembled into a straight line, what appeared to be a timeline of data. He could see the dates ticked off on the line: 12 January 2010, 19 January 2010, 26 January 2010, and it trailed off in both directions. He was half tempted to reach out and scroll to November 2010, absent mindedly remembering something significant that happened on that day, but pulled his hand back. Just let this finish he said to himself.
Then, the timeline shifted. The data began to rise and sink; one great pattern week after week, the data rising with a peak on 12 January 2010, and the data falling into a valley on 19 January 2010. A sine wave of data, stretched out for who knows how long in either direction. It was now constructed in a waveform with all the data peaking one week and then dropping down into a valley the next. Like an old musical recording, he thought.
He skimmed the data. He looked at the peak point on 12 January. It had a point at the top that was labeled “Planescape: Torment.” So much praise under that point, such as awesome, great, incredible, life-altering, and amazing. Must have been something, whatever it was. His eyes wandered over to the valley on 19 January. It was similarly labeled “Planescape: Torment.” Only now the words over that low point were awful, horrible, linear, overrated, and shit. What the hell, he though. He quickly looked at the next peak. 26 January the top point was “Ultima VII” and the praise was similar. Yet, a week later, the same valley and similar damning comments: dated graphics, bad interface, buggy, Iolo OP: it went on, and made less sense the more he read.
He scrolled forward slowly. The pattern repeated, week after week, year after year. Why would my grandfather spend so much time on this foolishness? Praising something then destroying it, over and over. He pulled his hand back like he was stung when the line changed again. A key to the left of the line read simply “General RPG Discussion.” Then, in rapid succession more sine waves appeared: one labeled “General Gaming” with a tighter wavelength, followed by “Adventure Gaming” and “Strategy Gaming”. Twenty three in all running parallel to each other. All with different wavelengths, but all the balanced pattern of reoccurring love and hate.
He started to understand just as the data began to fade out, leaving only the waves. Side by side, each line of a different color. The lines then overlapped into one stream, multicolored and chaotic, but he could not wait for the datascope to do it for him. He impatiently shouted out Play it for me!
The room was filled with beautiful music, of such majesty the likes he had not heard in his life. A swelling masterpiece of sound and sublime poetry caressed his ears. He choked back tears of joy and stretched out his arm, as if to touch the hand of his great-grandfather whose writings became mere notes in this symphony which even now was penetrating the depths of Johns soul! He stiffened. Wait, no. Nope. This music is shit. Pure shit.
Lord Trousersnake
Scholar
- Joined
- Jun 28, 2013
- Messages
- 70
If I happen to win anything in this (Grunkers Gonna Grunk, page 4) I'd appreciate a steam key.
Gregz
Arcane
Monty
Arcane
GOG key for me pls. Although it looks like this competition has been forgotten about and DU is handing out the keys to random Australian street children.
That is probably for the best.
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