Aardvark

I find it sad, living my life surrounded by these wretched fools. These mundane creations who know not why they walk the hallowed grounds of this world I helped shape, played a part in creating. Now, cursed to walk among them, imprisoned in this shell of flesh, until... who knows? For crimes against the creator, they said. Fools! I AM the creator. ME!!! But alas, there is nothing I can do now, but walk among the creatures created to watch over MY world But my spirit was never totally beaten down. It took the combined efforts of the other creative forces to lock me down. They couldn't render me powerless. But what power I still retained was filtered through this.... brain. This lump of gray matter that controls.... that IS a human. And a remarkable creation it is, with all five of us designing the thing, I'm surprised it turned out like it did. But a filter it is. It took millennia to get used to and even after all this time, I hadn't worked out all the nuances of the thing. But it was functional. And did give rise to surprising twists that were, more often than not, most welcome. But I craved freedom at all times. Oh, to be omnipotent again..... a goal I strive to achieve. In theory, a simple one. Simply overload the power capacity of this fleshy prison. In practice, next to impossible. Shortly after my imprisonment, the other 4 drained the excess energy from this world. But there were, hotspots. Places where power leaked into the world from places beyond reality. But they were few and far between. So I had to be forever on the lookout for them. Which meant interacting with.... Them... I could smell it. Feel it. Taste the thing. A hotspot. Finally... and this one felt like a powerful one. Maybe enough? No, never enough, but I would milk it for all it was worth. I quickly made my way to the center of the thing without arousing too much attention from the mundanes around. Perfect. The hotspot was in the middle of a queue. Queuing for freedom. Ooooh, it'd feel so good to just roast the lot of them. Minutes pass like centuries to me. I find myself looking at the clock too frequently, seeing that only seconds have past since I last turned my head. Slowly, ever slowly, I approach the center. I can feel the power spike up. Every fibre of my fleshy shell twitches in anticipation. Almost there.... so close... Ding! The person at the head of the queue leaves. The line shuffles forward. I'M THERE! The power is tremendous. I'd never felt power like this since.... so long ago, I almost can't remember. I begin the process. Focusing, concentrating, creating a vortex in my mind. Drawing power down through my being and expelling it into the corporeal world. Yes... YES!!! It burns all over, but I crave more. I need it... almost there.... just a little more- "Excuse me, Mister. You're on fire" That voice. That infernal voice broke my spell. I turned to see the source of the voice. A small human child. "Of course I'm on fire. Why wouldn't I be?" I snapped "Doesn't it hurt?" "No, it doesn't hurt. Why should it hurt?" Oooh, this was infuriating. The last outburst got the attention of the child's mother "How DARE you talk to my chi- OH MY GOD!!! THIS MAN'S BURNING!!! SOMEONE CALL AN AMBULANCE!!!" Oh, great. Not again. I'd flamebursted without realising it. In public. God, this was embarrassing. And to top it off, someone had hit the emergency alarm. Not only did I now have to put up with that wailing siren, but now I was wet. The sprinklers had finally kicked in. God, how I HATE them!

Depression is like every mental "illness". Only in the mind. You don't need chemicals to get yourself out of it, you don't need 140 buck an hour councilling, you don't need hypnotherapy, you need to find whatever's getting you down and get over it. Accept it. Move on. Not in the "Shit happens, deal with it" way. Accept whatever the cause is as part of you and shape yourself around it. Screw conformity, become your insecurities, don't let them control you, make them part of you. Soon, you'll have nothing to be depressed about. Failing that, dope yourself up 'til the entire world looks like a land of chocolate

Life in the urban jungle. A harsh one, but one everyone lived. You either lived or you died, in the urban jungle. There were dangers aplenty, as everywhere, but none so dangerous as in the urban jungle. Elsewhere on earth, other jungles, the predators would only hunt you for food and only if nothing else was available. Here, the predators hunt for pitiful reasons, survival being nowhere to be seen. Sport, you could call it, but sport is more of a want than a need. To fulfill a need. That's why they hunt. They need to feel adequate. They can't do that unless they can prove they're better than everyone else. So they set about it the only way they know how On this dark night, an hour past midnight, such predators are out. Roaming the cityscape in packs, sniffing out loners and other predator packs. They don't stray too far on foot, but will roam for miles on wheels. Loners... or anyone who counts. This young couple counted. These predators never heard of women's lib. Even if they did, they'd just laugh. Right now, they smell their prey. And the prey knows it. The man held his girl close as they navigated the few short streets between their houses. Short... but never short enough. If his car hadn't been in the shop, they would've driven. He'd offered her his place, but she'd declined. A bruise to his ego, but one he could live with. He knew her too well. She'd tried to dissuade him from coming with her, but he was too protective. He knew the streets at night too well. The leader's nostrils flared. He could smell his prey approaching. He nodded to his two accomplices and the pack closed in. A pretty young thing, he thought to himself. And a pathetic specimen of manhood with her. This would be fun. "Hey baby, come over here and I'll treat you like a real man." His standard call across the dark street. The couple ignored him. Couples seldom didn't. The couple also sped up. Seldom did couples fail to do this, too.. "Awww, c'mon baby, you're breakin' my heart here." The pack closed in, one of the three stopping in the path ahead of the couple, the second circling around to the side, the leader brazenly striding straight up to the man. "I'm talking to you, baby. Speak when you're spoken to." The couple kept walking, trying to weave between the leader and the thug ahead of them. "What is this? Are you disrespecting me, bitch?" With these words, the animal stepped forward and beat his fist into his palm. His two betas also closed in, standing off to the side. The man pushed his girl behind him, angling himself so as to not have any of the three out of his field of vision. He took a deep breath, then spoke. "The first one of you to touch me will die." The leader sneered and swung his fist. -- Constable Brown had the honour of writing up a report in triplicate over this. He wasn't too concerned, though. He knew the corpse a little too personally. He'd been close to ending the punk's existence himself on several occasions, so he was almost glad to have this paperwork. Almost. He wasn't going to put much effort into this one. Gang warfare leaves one dead, no witnesses. All he'd have to hope is the no witnesses part held true. Walking around the scene as the paramedics zipped up the corpse, he spied something in the gutter. A wallet. He donned a latex glove, retrieved the wallet and opened it. The first thing he saw was a passport photo of a rather plain looking girl being held by.... he couldn't tell who. The face had been smudged by something. He flipped through the cards 'til he found a license, then shook his head. Tears slid down his face as he read the letter. He couldn't believe it. 3 days had passed, not a word, now this. God, he'd been so stupid. He should've insisted they stay at his place or taken a different route or something. Now... this... letter. He sniffed, catching another whiff of her scent from the paper. He'd risked his life for her. He'd been prepared to die for her. He'd taken a life for her. Now she never wanted to see him again. He could understand why, but.... His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. "Excuse me, Mr Johnson, you appear to have lost your wallet"

Parramatta McDonalds be the scene. The hero of the story, me. This is my story, none of you filthy vermin are taking it away from me. This story has no real basis in reality, aside from what really should be done, but won't be done, for various reasons. If you can't figure those reasons out on your own, you're a danger to society and should be locked away from it. If you can figure those reasons out, then good for you, you good little conformist. Why don't you go get married, have 2.3 kids and live the rest of your life in the middle of suburbia, paying your taxes and driving 20 below the limit like a good little citizen. Now, on with the story. This McDonalds be my favourite in Sydney, as it's open 24 hours and is run by a man who is so happy, we're sure he tortures children during his time off, just to balance his own personal karma. Either that or he's on some of the strongest perscribtion medication for depression known to man, without actually being depressive in the first place. People like that really do wonders for customer satisfaction, even if you do get the urge to smack the bastard for being too happy. The food there is standard slop-onna-bun and fried cardboard in cardboard with salt, like is found everywhere, except at 3 bells, when it surpasses ambrosia in taste and texture. If you place your order just as the clock strikes 3, reality itself will distort and warp as it tries to get used to the very idea of tasty maccas. Needless to say, we frequent this particular McDonalds at 3 am, whenever possible. Usually after a night of pool. At this particular time, however, the McDonalds happens to be host to two of my least favourite cars on the road. A WRX and stupidly overriced Civic. If you have to ask why I hate them, drive around Parramatta for a good... 5 minutes or so. You'll hate them, too. As I stare upon these two cars, I tighten my grip on the runic blade I just happen to be carrying beneath my coat. I find myself with this runic blade too much, of late. Possibly because of the constant need to cut out the decay that tears the social fabric apart. But only when it feels the need to roll me for my shoes. My world begins to narrow. My perception limits itself to the parking lot and no further. Soon, I filter the store, the other cars and the people almost completely out of my consciousness. I feel the energy of the universe fill me as I draw my blade. I scream my bloody warcry and charge towards the WRX When I emerged from my trance, I was striding away from the scene. My blade dripping a mixture of petrol, oil and brake fluid. Sirens were blaring in the background. There was shouting everywhere and cars were fleeing the scene. No one was in pursuit. As I continued walking, bits and pieces of the past 15 seconds begin to come back to me. The hiss of suddenly punctured tyres, the tinkle of shattered glass, the satisfying crunch of a horizontally opposed engine collapsing in on itself, all coming back, forming a symphony in my mind. A frenzied blur of blows whittling down the Civic's wing until none remained, before slicing the vehicle cleanly in two. A precise thrust opening the empty chamber of a rusty firearm one of the irate owners produced in the hopes of scaring me off. I smiled. I'd always wanted to do that. Now I had Yes, as I told you, it was fiction. Well, mostly. I hate WRXs. I hate overriced anythings. I believe that anyone who asks to have a spoiler installed on anything should be beaten about the head several times, unless they can come up with a perfectly reasonable explaination for their deisre. But I own no runic blades. Although, I have a lot of soap.And with enough soap, one can blow up just about anything

I didn't get out of the wrong side of the anthill I got out of the wrong goddamn anthill Yes, I'm Aard

One great glorious hole

Don't start with me, donut I was toying with variations on iraqi dictator, insurance salesman and Bushist, so as you can see, she got off lightly

/me removes the capital A from his name and repeatedly belts Gwai with it BLASPHEMER!!! HEATHEN SWINE!!! VAGABOND!!!

"Zombi?" "Yeah, Zombi. Without the E. The E is a useless addition to the name, I tells you. It drops it out of synch with causality, weakening the creature." "I see..." "See, you know your average zombie well. Brainless corpse, ambling around on a neverending search for brains. Most people attribute this to the creature's lack of brains from being dead and all, but they be wrong, I tells ya." "Umm... ok" "Where as your average Zombi, don't forget the capitalisation, I tells ya, well he's a smart, cunning devil. Unless he's a she. Then she's a smart cunning devil. Either way, they're smart and they're cunning. They're not really devils, being the reanimated corpses of people, but that's beside the point. They fight like devils, plus they're smart like devils and they're cunning like devils. They're still undead, but in a devilish way." "Right..." "Now, if you pitted a Zombi against a zombie, it'd be no contest. The Zombi would pummel the inferior git into the earth, tear it limb from limb, then chant various deathrites over it's dismembered form, to dispel the weak magics holding it to the world. Try any of that garbage on a Zombi, you'll be payin' a visit to the undertaker in the morn'. 'Cause they got the harmonics all correct an' such, they is stronger, faster and can sew themselves back together in the event of sudden dismemberment." "Umm..." "Too few of them necrogoons realise this, though, so they go ahead, preaching their dyslexic dogma to the dead and get inferior beings rising from the ground. But once they drop the e, they've got some serious soldiers of the damned at their disposal. But they've gotta be on their guard, 'cause these Zombi be cunning' devils, know what I mean? They'll tear you limb from limb soon as look at ya, and that's when they're in a good mood." "Who are you, again?" "So's I got to thinkin' that maybe the misspelling is some kind of safety thing, put in by necro's from ages past, knowin' that their descendants are gonna be the inferior type of necronerd who isn't into the whole king of the dead routine and only practices this in his mummy's (heh heh, mummy, geddit?) basement 'cause they can't get girls. Sos the ancients deliberately on purpose misspell the name of the things, thereby castratin' them of their power, speed and brains, thereby ensuring that havoc isn't wreaked upon the world 'til someone worthy of the title Lord of the Undead emerges" "Ok... I'm going now..." "Now, your classical Lord of the Undead...." At this point, I smiled, nodded politely and backed away. God, who invites these freaks to parties?

You should've ordered pizza instead Can't go wrong with pizza Unless they goose up your order something shocking, then close up shop and move to pakistan before you can go back down there and have a whinge Goddamn wandering shops....

I was considering getting an F100 Custom when I was car shopping about a month ago, until several people got together and repeatedly pointed out that I had no need for one, no use for one and no chance in hell of keeping the bastard on the road with my meagre income But a man can dream, can't he? A man can dream

I write because I can If I couldn't, I'd be teaching third grade english And getting paid more than I am now, but that's beside the point

The writer sat there, staring at the glowing screen. In front of him, a white page that should've been flowing with fresh words, straight from his brain, though his fingers and onto this electronic medium for the masses to experience. But today, nothing. Not a thing would come out. His well of inspiration had been bulldozed and had a housing development whacked on top of it. He tried in vain several times, hoping if he started, inertia would carry him through to the end, but it was hopeless. A classic tale of treachery and war, perhaps? No, says his imagination. A harrowing tale of survival in atrocious conditions? Not a chance in hell, spoke his subconscious. How about a simple rant about anything that comes to mind? NOT A CHANCE IN HELL, every portion of his brain screamed in unison. It was no good. He had to admit it. HE had to face reality. He had writers block. And a severely shocking case of it at that He had to overcome it fast. Writing was his passion. He had to write. It defined himself. It also earned him cash on the side, which was possibly the most important fact in this day and age. He had to write again, he just had to. But how? What was causing it? His mental state? On the verge of collapse, kept going by will and excessive caffeine alone? He'd never written outside of it, though. Maybe it'd just been his day of inactivity. Nothing had happened to inspire him? Possibly... damnit, these he couldn't fix right away. He tried something simple. Grabbing a pen and paper, he sat down and had another bash at it. A simple poem. A limerick. There once was a man from.... oh, why am I even bothering? Maybe a refreshing drive 'round the suburbs was in order. He hopped in his old rundown junkheap and set out to... wherever. The destination wasn't important, as it would ultimately be home anyway. A little trouble starting the thing, but that was usual. It'd cost him bugger all, he wasn't complaining. Finally got the rust bucket going, he proceeded to navigate the winding streets of his home. Then he remembered he had no where in particular to go. So he picked directions at random. Left, left, right left, right right, right, left... He'd heard about cities where 3 rights would get you back on track if you missed a left. Cities where the roads were laid out in a neat grid, rather than a series of random twisted streets in the middle of nowhere which all lead around in circles, with only one way into the deathtrap. A cartographer's nightmare. But it was home. And it made for unpredictable journeys at times. Also gave him the perfect excuse for missing important functions he had no interest in attending He slowly passed a car that had melded into a telegraph pole. He would've gone quicker, but for the mundane bastards ahead of him who had some sick fascination with twisted bodies in wreckages stopping for 5 minutes to take pictures for their archives. Worst people on earth, he told himself. Finally, it was clear and he could once again cruise. He'd managed to wind up on a main road. Not a bad thing, but not really suited for random directions. So he stuck to it for a while. A few minutes later, he spied two cars and a series of paddy wagons by the side of the road. Men in uniform were swarming over the two cars, going through them. Another two of them were patting down two suspect looking gentlemen, while a woman in uniform was questioning a girl who barely looked over 14. Criminal bandits, he said to himself. He didn't know what that was about, he didn't care, either. Soon, it was out of site. And out of mind. He merged over and took a left at the next exit. Into another suburban area. This one was upper class. Ooooh, he loved cruisin' around upper class suburban areas in his noise machine. Too much fun could be had. Trouble was it tended to attract the attention of the constabulary if you spent too much time engaged in it. Not that there were any laws against it, but they didn't take too kindly to young hooligans taunting the affluent. With this in mind, he floored it. Roaring down a long straight, he quickly said a small prayer to the gods of automechanics and asked his beast to be good for him, then took a sharp corner. The screech of tyres caught the attention of a few kiddies playing in a front yard, but he was gone before they could get a good look. Onto a nice, windy downhill road, his favourite. Going a little too fast, he took the curves flawlessly, then broke hard and slid into another turn. Flooring it again, he saw a main road ahead and made the wise decision of returning home. He'd had enough fun for one day. The trip back was uneventful. Except for the suspiciously beefy looking V8 following him for a good mile or two, trying it's best to look nonchalant as it changed lanes whenever he did, doing it's best not to let any cars get between them. He laughed and made a point of going 20 below the limit until the car gave up pursuit. It wasn't too long before he was home and dry, the little cruise over, for today. He returned to his room, lay on his bed and retrieved his keyboard. Placing it on his lap, he moved his mouse. The machine lit up, showing the same familiar blank page. He cracked his knuckles, thought long and hard, then typed, "The writer sat there, staring at the glowing screen...."

I tried pen paper dice roleplaying. It never really worked. Y'know that dead ale wives skit about D&D? The one some clown made a movie using 3d models from a bunch of games? That was us, pretty much. LARPing.... umm.... no. I don't care what you say in it's defense, for the love of god, no. IRC... yeah, it's fun if it just spontaneously breaks out, but if it continues too long, my fingers get tired and I lose interest Forums... never have the time or the patience to keep up to date Anything slower, just forget it. Computer games, if they're actually fun. Favourite RPG on computer is Fallout 2. You get a long term goal at the start, then you do whatever the hell you want from then on. Wasted weeks of my life on that Maybe it's just reality digging her suprisingly strong fake nails into my brain, but I'm slowly drifting away from RP of all kinds Nah, I'm just working too goddamn hard

In these hallowed halls of education, we waited in silence, members of an endless queue to a destination unknown. Ever full of hope for a better future, we waited, me and my crippled companion, waited for some sign that we could possibly escape. But the road to freedom was long and filled with other applicants, all hoping for a spot in one of the prestigious classes offered at this institution. In my compatriot's hand, his ticket in. A simple form. He stared long and hard at the form, looking away once to notice a fresh batch of space which had the misfortune of forming in front of him. On a broken foot, he moved unsteadily forward, conquoring this new space before any had a chance to snatch it from him. I, ever in pursuit, quickly followed, occupying the space abandoned by my friend A look of frustration crossed my companion's face. A blank space on the form! It's very existence mocking his attempt at securing himself a place under the tutelage of the campus' renowned teachers. In a flurry. he began patting pockets, searching his memory and looking around. Finally, he gave up and turned to me "My friend, I appear to be in a bind. You must aid me, else I will return home a broken and bitter man. I charge you with this quest, dear friend, to locate and retrieve for me a writing implement of some description. A pen, if you will. Go, my friend, find for me this object and return victorious. Failure to do so will unbalance the harmony of nature and could possibly lead to the destruction of the universe as we know it. Also, I won't be able to enroll today." The stakes were high, I tell you. Existence and enrollment were on the line, here. My dear friend's future was in peril and it was up to me to rescue him from this fate worse than death. But the quest was to prove more difficult than one would normally anticipate, as such an item was not among those in my inventory at that time. I would have to journey day and night to locate another penbearer and hope he would part with the holy icon of literature before my companion reached the head of the queue, where he would face shame and humiliation upon presenting his incomplete enrollment form. I pivoted on the spot, then stopped. The man directly behind us. Could he hold the key to our dilemma? Could my quest be over this soon? I was prepared to risk all to find out, and thus I spoke. "Excuse me. Could I borrow a pen, at all?" "Sure, here you go." With that, he offered me his pen. I graciously took the object, turned to face my friend and passed it on to him. He accepted the tool and proceeded to enscribe the rune M in the box marked with the holy sigils, "Sex? M/F" He then returned to me the pen, which I proceeded to return to the bearer. I thanked the man and wished him the greatest of fortune in the future. Throughout the whole ordeal, the line had remained frozen in place. 48 seconds, by my telling. 48 seconds, not a soul breathed as my actions ensured the stability of reality

Able Smithson, businessman, autocrat, megalomaniac. Richest man on earth, owner of a vast global empire and voted Times Magazine's Man of the Year 3 years running. But he'd had his sights set on something beyond mere capitalism. He wanted the world, as do all good megalomaniacs. The plan was simple, straight to formula. Develop doomsday device, in this case a groundbased cannon with enough power to blast a shell clear to the moon and accuracy enough to create a smiilie face on the surface with several shots. Which he'd already proven. He'd also proven that he could hit anywhere on earth with the same accuracy, demolishing landmarks and strategic installations world wide with each hour that passed without a demand met. It was flawless, foolproof, nothing could stop him. Except one man. George Manfred of Her Majesty's Secret Service. The greatest field operative to come out of Britain ever. One part spy, one part commando, one part charming gentleman, all parts legend. He'd been airdropped onto Smithson's island fortress with the goal of finding Smithson and eliminating him with extreme prejudice. The two words that tell you this guy must've done something truly evil. Like steal the sugar from the Queen's tea This was always the worst part of any assignment. Gaining access to the inner sanctum of an island fortress. Sure, thanks to electronics knowhow, computer wizardry and a laser that cuts through titanium like an arcwelder through runny butter, there was no barrier he couldn't penetrate, but there were all these hired peons who, for one reason or another, saw their paycheque as being more valuable than their lives. This didn't stop Manfred, just irritated him slightly. Hell, he'd visited countries that had less people than he'd killed today. More peons, another vault door, boobytrap, he took it all in stride. He was unstoppable. He was invincible. He was... surrounded. Whoops, spent a little too much time on reflection. "Ahh, we meet at last, Mr Manfred," The booming voice of Smithson over a megaphone, "I trust you didn't get lost along the way?" "Not at all, Mr Smithson. Although, your staff weren't too helpful in that regard" "No, they're not paid to give directions. But enough banter, I suppose you're wondering what I'm to do with you." "You're going to kill me, I assume?" "You assume correctly, Mr Manfred." With that, Smithson drew an antique revolver, leveled it at Manfred's head and fired. The agent fell to the floor, dead. "No lucky escapes for you this time, Mr Manfred." Smithson gloated, before proceeding with his patented EvilLaugh, unaware that he was being observed from on high. None in the room could hear the gentle scrape of a vent cover being removed over Smithson's cackling. None noticed the gentle thump as two well-padded feet hit the floor, behind the congregation of hired guns. None were quick enough to react as a hail of bullets from a silenced submachine gun quickly dispatched everyone in the room. The newcomer's face didn't even change as he wiped out every member of Smithson's guard, followed by Smithson himself. When the echoes of the screams died away, the assassin strode over to Manfred's corpse and checked his pulse. More symbolic than anything, considering the ex-spy's brains now coated the far wall and part of the roof. The assassin then pulled out a small transmitter and softly spoke into it, before exiting the room The news of Smithson's defeat at the hands of Manfred spread about the globe. The people rejoiced that they were finally safe, but they were saddened by the loss of a real hero. Newspapers around the world dedicated two page spreads to the agent's exploits and his final moments, saving the world from the madman's maniacal plot but sacrificing his life in the process. But nowhere could be found word of the fate of the doomsday cannon.

As I go through life, anything remarkable leaves an impression on me. People, places, pieces of literature, movies, incoherent rantings from the homeless, stand up comedy, music, the works. I possess an open mind that'll never be close to filling up. Problem is the filing system is non-existent, so anything that pops out is a combination of god-knows-what mixed with buggered-if-I-can-remember, processed through my misaligned psyche, fired out through my fingers as fast as I can think it If something takes longer than 5 minutes or so, I lose it.

I needed a screen name. I like Aardvarks. 'Nuff said, really