Aardvark

The good thing about a bad memory is the bad memories are gone before you realise you're remembering them. The bad thing is you spend the next hour trying to remember whatever it was you just forgot, incase it was a good memory

"So how do you feel?" The Doctor's voice slightly out of sync with his lips on the comlink droned for the hundredth time. "Its... I don't know... it's weird, it's like I'm whole, all there. I feel everything, but I know I'm not." "But if you feel all there and you look all there, doesn't that, in essence, make you 'All there'?" "Well..." A brief hint of static and the psychotherapist was gone, replaced with various monitors. Biofluid levels, lubricant levels, fusion power levels, picobot efficiency, production... his body needed quite a lot of maintenance. Especially as it was never meant to be a body as it was. Another burst of static and he saw through the armour's optic sensors. His own eyes long gone, this was the only way he ever saw the world. A machine linked directly to his brain. But he was only observing at this point. He didn't really need to be consciously in control. His software enhanced subconscious did a fine job of commanding his body. Even in the war zone he was in. His massive form, an eight foot titanium alloy suit of battle armour, encasing the cybernetically reconstructed form of a once-great warrior, stomped through the ruins of this settlement. Targeting computers linked to radars and other sensory equipment pinpointed every entity out there, tagged them according to threat level and presented them in a list by distance, highlighting those with line of sight. His right arm, which ended in a massive twin barreled cannon, locked onto the future position of an unfortunate moving enemy and fired, sending a pair of explosive shells on a collision course with the unarmoured soldier who'd mistakenly thought it was best to dart between cover. Static again. His memory. Having one of the techs explain his enhanced neural interface. The static bursts as he switched "modes" were actually called "Transitions". Now he questioned the need to give that a name. He had been told that he was the prototype for this new system. Transition - forced this time. He'd been hit. Status showed a graphical representation of his form, rather crude he thought, but functional. He'd taken a rocket to the back. It hadn't detonated, fortunately bouncing off, but the forced of the blow had upset his stabilisers. This didn't really affect him any, just meant his brain would take over the job of keeping him upright, as opposed to a computer. He switched to a tactical layout of the immediate area. He was closing in on the objective, a vehicle depot belonging to whatever enemy he was fighting this week. He'd stopped caring long ago. Now it was all he was able to do. Kill. He almost enjoyed it. On the map in his mind, red blips signifying enemies blanked out as he passed them. He didn't even have to try. The only real threat would be enemy armour and he'd have known of that long ago. His armour.... hell, it was more than his armour, it was him. He was bullet proof. He had advanced flame and shock resisting systems. He could punch through steel walls. Now back to the psychotherapist. He had a team of psychotherapists who worked in shifts to ensure he had someone on hand incase he ever became despondent. He knew they were working on a thesis to further advance the field of cyberpsycho interaction and their own careers and he was all too happy to help them probe the mysteries of the human brain when it nears the machine threshold. Right now he was doing this by demanding his doctor tell him how he could possibly be considered human. He enjoyed toying with them. He didn't care about philosophy. He just loved seeing these well-paid hacks try and dig up something from their text books to counter every argument he put forward. Because they knew if they let them go, he'd demand to be shut down and dismantled. Not that he wanted to be, but he didn't let them know that. Once more to the battlefield, this time with his consciousness in control. The depot was surrounded by a sandbag wall with various machine gun emplacements. He charged at one of them, crashing through the wall, knocking the machine gun and gunner aside. At close quarters, he chose to employ a different set of tactics. His right arm also had an adjustable torch that was capable of shooting a searing jet of flame up to three feet from him. Designed for welding originally, his picobots saw to it that it was quickly converted into an effective close quarters weapon. His left hand had no ranged weapons at all. Where his hand would be was a turbochainsaw. Two belts of jagged diamond spikes rotating in opposite directions, easily capable of tearing apart wood, metal, flesh and bone with no difficulty at all. For an eight foot tall lumbering hulk, he was surprisingly quick. In no time, he'd decapitated one defender, disemboweled another and had sliced a third clean down the middle. He left the fray once more, searching through his technical database. the RB-209 Augmented Combat Suit. Complete with advanced microhydraulics and electrofibre to enhance strength and agility and with picobot damage control systems to ensure longer operation in battlefield conditions. Sporting a generation three Heisler fusion reactor for power, the RB-209 is- Then his memory again. Blackness. Silence. Pain. That was his world. It had subsided slightly, he hoped the napalm had been extinguished. He was fighting for life, willing back the reaper. He'd been hit by a well concealed boobytrap, engulfed in napalm. But he was still alive. It hurt to breathe, it hurt to move, it hurt to think, but he wasn't giving up. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction. The battle again. A fuel tank exploded away from him, the resulting fireball engulfing two enemies. He knew they lacked the technical skills to create one of him, but he wouldn't wish his fate on anyone. Two shells later and both soldiers were silent, their corpses fiercely burning. Medics had arrived, he could tell. He felt the familiar glow of anesthetics. His eardrums had burst and his eyes were gone. He had nearly no uncharred skin left. He was all alone in a world of numbness. For how long... he had no idea. The chainsaw tore through the command tent like it wasn't there. He took his time dispatching the three guards, giving the radio operator ample time to send out a call of distress. He knew it was useless. The area was being bombarded with noise. All frequencies save for a select few were jammed. The com operator scanned through the range, crying out to anyone who could read him, knowing there was no escape anyway. He was only part right, though. When light flooded his vision, he knew it was artificial. It was like looking through a camera. But... he couldn't tell. He knew he was seeing the world through a machine. Next came his new aural sensors, hooked directly into his brain. At first it was a light hum. Then painful white noise, which slowly subsided until he could hear once again, almost too perfectly. Taste, touch and smell were deemed unnecessary, he was told. Mobility was next. But they hadn't restored his voice. He still couldn't ask that burning question. "Why, Doctor?" The one question that always silenced his psychotherapists. The chainsaw ripped through the radio equipment and through the operator's right leg. Three strokes later and the radio operator was a bleeding, screaming torso. A quick application of searing heat and a chem-pack and he was out like a light, but stable. After deep extraction, this one would be little more than a vegetable anyway, if he survived. A beacon was attached to his corpse and a retrieval team was signaled for. Scanners did show more hostiles in the area, but they were considered a minimal threat, as most of them were in full flight. Still, he would mop up as best he could. His first few steps into his new world were as unsteady as the first into his last world. Guiding a machine was difficult for him to grasp. In theory, it was no different to moving his legs. In practice, his brain repeatedly reminded him that his legs had been scorched to the bone and were no longer there. It took months of rehabilitation before he was fully mobile again. His new voice was warm and pleasant. The closest to his old voice they could synthesize. They'd taken their sweet time with it, though. When it finally came online, it was only so an officer could ask him if he would continue fighting in his augmented form. "He should've saved his time and assumed. It's all I've ever known, is war, fighting." He almost regretted saying this as soon as the transmission cleared him "Let us go back to your childhood...." A status alert told him he was down to twenty percent ammunition as he took out a fleeing trooper at four hundred meters. There was no longer a need to conserve ammunition, though. He ignored it and acquired a new target, crushing a skull underfoot as he moved to a better vantage point. He filed the skull for later contemplation, locked onto the fleeing figure and fired. When he finally donned the RB-209, he didn't feel as complete as he thought he would. It would take some time before he got used to the new neural interface. But he would be quick to master it. The picobot reconstruction system also allowed for upgrades with little more than an added schematic and the required resources. With access to a vast technical library and his own natural ingenuity, his cybernetic form was quickly integrated with the armour, completing him. He knew he was no longer human. He knew the only purpose left for him was war. And so he dedicated himself to it. Constantly tweaking, tuning and upgrading his new body to enhance his fighting capabilities. The extraction team had arrived. What remained of the com operator had been rendered chemically comatose, packed in ice and flown home. A debriefing and a new mission were transmitted to him. He didn't have to read either. As soon as he received them, they were filed away as part of his memory. The thought of this crossed him, giving him more ammunition. "But how can it be a memory if I never experienced it?" He knew he was close to another resignation. This one would make number six.

We were all hunters, really. But he was Hunter. His name by birth, his name by profession. Hunter. We didn't know anything about him, save that he was one of the best. On this planet, where only the best survive, those who are referred to as "The Best" are truly phenomenal people. But after working with him just the once, it could safely be said that Hunter was indeed the best. 900 years of recorded history show that throughout mankind's time on this planet, he has faced one hardship after another. The Bishops preach that we came from the stars and are stranded until we can reach out and touch our otherworld brethren, but nobody really believes that. Most people have more important things to deal with. Survival being the prime one. Out beyond the limits, in the wilds, lived the creatures of nightmares. With almost constant cloudcover, the planet was bathed in shadows. Through technology, we'd adapted, but we barely survived. Out there, creatures thrived. Even after centuries, most of them were not fully understood. Which is where hunters came in. As the transport sped over the rocky terrain, we shared smalltalk about the mission, the objective and life in general. All except Hunter. He spent his time checking his array of weapons, polishing two large daggers or adjusting his left arm, a biomechanical replacement commonly seen in our line of work. Unlike the crude replacements normally seen, his was finely crafted to almost resemble a normal limb. None talked about him, but we knew we'd need him on this one. For the target was big. Simply called Dragons, these impossibly large reptile-like creatures inhabited the distant mountains, a volcanic area, where intense air pressure, weather extremes and thermal updraughts allowed these awesome creatures to take wing and fly across the vast ranges. Their numbers were estimated to be small, but they were vicious, aggressive and, it was believed, highly intelligent. But outside the range, they were incapable of flight. Although aerodynamic, their bulk prevented it. How they'd evolved was one more mystery we would help solve. For we were after the biggest. The boldest. One reputed to have a hatred of humans so intense that it would leave it's mountainous home to attack remote resource expeditions. Even with their incredible regenerative abilities, this one still retained scars that would set it apart from all others. Every time we mentioned it in conversation, Hunter seemed to wince and cradle his fake arm. We didn't mention it too often after we noticed this. The Ascent was the name given to the easiest path into the Range for vehicles. Spiked treads on the transport gave it grip on the treacherous terrain, but the seismic activity in this area could cause a rift to open at any time. Expeditions had been lost in the past due to a random upheaval of the crust. The radar was still silent. All biomonitors showed nothing. Things looked quiet. Which was what we wanted. Unlike the Dragons of legend told by the Bishops, these Dragons didn't sleep on piles of gold. They were constantly on the move, constantly cycling the burning, noxious air of their homes through their bodies, subsisting on the massive amounts of nitrous oxides and hydrocarbons released from the crust or brought down from the clouds. This was another reason they never left the Range. The only way to catch one of these beasts was to trap it. Normal hunters wouldn't know the first thing about trapping a Dragon. Which was why we needed Hunter His exploits were talked about as if he was a myth himself. Rarely seen, he spent almost all his time away from other humans, out in the Range. Learning about his prey. Studying their patterns. Plotting and scheming against each and every one. We'd caught him by chance as he returned from one of these long, self-imposed exiles. He'd approached us, which surprised us. We'd been chosen by the legendary Hunter. The job? To hunt a Dragon. The reward? Fame, glory and the Dragon's carcass. How long? "Three years, so far." was his answer to that one. We set up camp on an outcrop, below a plateau Hunter said was a common deposit site for the Dragon he wanted. A nice way of saying we were going to catch him defecating. But Dragon feces were little more than fine mists of a harmless powder, the excess unabsorbed carbon, most other waste products being gaseous in nature. The plan was a simple one. All we had to do was anger the Dragon. Lure him down. Their hides were reputedly thick enough to weather the most powerful of man's artillery. Today, we would learn how to bring one down. Our weapons were all compressed air-propelled projectile weapons. Low power concussion rifles, designed to make little noise. Sound echoing through the valleys and corridors o The Range always brought undue attention. The projectiles did send a shockwave through the body of the Dragon, causing pain. In theory, enough could kill one. In practice, theories fell apart like claw-sliced bodies. We waited for three days, sleeping in shifts, firing off sonic flares every hour. High in the maelstrom encasing this planet, these devices would attract only the keenest of ears nearby, anyone out too far would be unable to pinpoint the source of the noise. Normally, these were used to distract Dragons, who usually had short attention spans when it came to harmless things they can't digest. But those few who knew the sound of a flare seemed to hate it to the point of blind rage. The flares we used had quadruple the payload of a standard sonic flare. After three days, the radar showed something closing in. Something big. Before the ancient machine had alerted us, we all felt sure today was the day. The wind was blowing back the way we came, out of the mountains. Dragons flew with the wind, tasting their way around the Range. When the Biometer sounded, we knew He was here. Signature was a match. Hunter seemed to know this all along, though. He just grinned and cocked his rifle, waiting for it to come into view. Dropping down from the clouds with an almighty roar, the beast was upon us. It had smelled the trap. Then the radar... there was no time to think. We all scrambled for better cover as the creature slammed into the ground, it's flexible body allowing it to bounce back into the air, with the glow of tracer fire following it's ascent. Distortion rockets were fired at the beast, their aim to confuse by seemingly altering the air currents, but they were ignored. This trick had been tried before, it seemed. A second time it fell toward us, this time crushing one of the Rocketers. As it rose, a grapnel graced across it's wing and hooked in a bony joint. The creature seemed not to notice, until it pulled Hunter from the ground. As it twisted and jolted, trying to dislodge the foreign object and stay aloft simultaneously, Hunter climbed the rope in moments, his augmented strength aiding his natural dexterity here. Instructions from here were simple. No more rockets, but keep up the fire. He had a personal shield that would easily protect him from our arsenal. Hanging from the creature's wing, Hunter drew one of his daggers, plunging it deep into the side of the beast. The creature ignored it, still working to dislodge the grapnel, which had fallen from the joint, only to dig into the fleshy membrane of the wing. Hanging from the dagger, Hunter plunged the second one in a little higher, then withdrew the first and stabbing once more beyond the other, using this method to traverse the underside of the monster. We could only guess at what was keeping his weapons from dislodging from the belly of that beast. The occasional flash of gold showed that the occasional round was still hitting his body, but our fire must have been countering for his knives, as the creature still hadn't noticed him. Until he reached it's throat. The shriek of the beast almost deafened us. It dove toward the ground. Hunter barely had time to reach it's back before it slammed into the plateau, kicking up a black cloud of carbon waste. As it rose into the air once more, we could see Hunter hanging on, inching his way up the beast's neck. We would've cheered at this, but had all been warned against such noises. The creature was in panic now. Hunter was at it's head. Hugging close to the creature behind what looked like ears, Hunter could survive the creature sliding upside down on the ground. The creature knew this. But tried it anyway. Hunter survived, another member of our party was not so fortunate, struck by the Dragon's wing and tossed off the side of the plateau. His vitals died a second later. We wouldn't be retrieving his corpse, merely adding a marker at his final resting place and incinerating his corpse. In the air once more, the Dragon tried a different tactic. Out of range of our weapons, it took an updraught up the side of a mountain to gain height. The toxins at that level could be higher than the tolerance levels of Hunter's filtermask. Skimming close to the ground, riding the draught, the creature froze. It's wings went limp and it hit the ground, sliding up the mountain. Through monoculars, we could just make out Hunter pulling a dagger from the back of the creature's skull. In silence, we de-camped and took the transport over to the carcass. Hunter was sitting patiently next to the thing, polishing his two daggers. Every now and then, he squeezed the grips, causing anchor spikes to flick outward. His gaze was locked on the direction the Radar had reported seeing this creature. The primitive device couldn't penetrate the cloudcover, which this one had used to sneak up on us. The conclusions we'd all guessed upon was a second dragon out beyond the range of the bioscanner. Hunter declined the offer to return with us, instead choosing to take a one man Quad we'd brought with us to venture deeper into the Range. He also declined our offers to stay with him, stating that he was after new prey. He wouldn't need us for another three years. Maybe more. None of us ever saw Hunter again. But over the years, more Dragon corpses were brought in. Research showed several ways these beasts could be harvested, as they stored valuable minerals in their bones, along with several new methods of bringing them down. But all of these seemed to involve concussion rounds to weak points on the creatures. A fine idea, in theory -- Fourteen years later, a marker beacon was activated deep in the Range. It was activated anonymously, which puzzled many. Some had gone in search of it, but none of those ever returned, as it was beyond the limits of human exploration. When curiosity got the best of us, we decided to take out a mobile scanning unit. In our hearts, we all knew who it belonged to, but it wasn't until the unit finally read the signature on the marker that we knew for sure it belonged to Hunter. At that point, we decided as one, it was time to return to The Range.

His senses were alive, every nerve ending on fire, reporting every last scrap of information back to his hyperactive brain. His eyes took in colours outside the normal spectrum, even the faintest of pheremones registering on his nose. He could hear every single small vibration in the area, taste a thousand things on the bitter air. He was alive. And he would stay this way quite a while longer His head darted from side to side, taking in everything. His mental calculator tallying up every target, every weapon, how many in use, the probable level of ammunition in said weapons, in reserve, in crates in vehicles. All it took him was a mere glance and he could describe a target right down to the colour of the stains on his boots, two glances and he could think of a hundred ways to kill that target with his bare hands. Aircurrents rippled past him, telling of the passage of bullets meant for him. But he knew of them before the air did. He knew where every single barrel of every last firearm was pointing. He could sense the likely cone of fire from automatic weapons in the hands of the unskilled, the line of fire from skilled ones and his reflexes, tuned to perfection, ensured his body never even came near any of them. His path through no man's land was erratic. He lept and bounded off various objects, low walls, burnt out vehicle husks, corpses in various states of decay. He never paused, not even to take advantage of the ample cover available in this burnt out city, but he did make use of it. A skilled soldier leads on a moving target, waiting for it to pause. And no target that knows it's a target will pause out of cover. So far, he'd counted well in excess of a thousand rounds of ammunition that would have brought him down, had he dived when they thought he would. Observers had a hard time following his movements, as random as they seemed. He was fleet of foot, but seemed to spend most of his time in the air. Every footfall planned scores of paces in advance, he made his way through the zone, his lips silently counting down. Counting breaths. That was how he saw it. Breaths. Everything tuned to that one necessity. All timed right down to seemingly mechanical precision. Which was how he saw it. The back of his mind ran through the motions, the rest of it took in his surroundings. Fire from the front. Twenty five targets classified alpha, four beta, one gamma. The tags he never thought, but if ever sending a report through his neural coder, that's how it would read. Alpha for armed threats, beta for unarmed threats or armed targets who weren't after him, gammas for anyone not classified as an immediate threat. Could include potential threats, civillians or wounded targets. Those that would be targeted last. A more detailed report showed six machine gun emplacements, eleven automatic rifles, six semi-automatic rifles and one pistol. The longer he remained alive and advancing over the three hundred meters of broken ground, the more targets he counted. He launched himself sideways, then braced his body, feeling the shockwaves from a nearby blast passing through him. Landing on all fours, then pouncing forward, he was off again. He'd moved within launcher range. Gas propelled grenades, he'd expected more of them. It mattered not to him, he'd be in throwing range, soon. The unpredictability of thrown fragmentation grenades concerned him more. Vaulting over a wall, diving, catrolling and continuing, he could feel the faintest hints of enemy heartbeats floating across the hot, acrid air. Razorwire was next. Coils of it between him and the enemy entrenchment. Razorwire in an ex-urban environment... what a waste of good metal. A step, a hop, a twist and his body flopped over the wire, presenting a tauntingly large target that none managed to hit. Landing soft, he picked his first target. Male, age 23. 6'2, 101 Kg. Fresh off a leave of sickness for a fractured funnybone. He saved his laugh for later, vaulting over the last line of sandbags and diving into the target, casually brushing his rifle aside. Two more nearby were aware of the situation, so they were next. One was down before he realised it, a sweeping kick taking his legs out from under him, the other joining him a short time later, his concussion the least of his worries. His immediate situation under control, he unsheathed his blade, held it aloft and... "Sweet merciful Jesus, you're good." Medics were already on hand, treating the three incapacitated privates. None were seriously hurt, just shocked and scared. The 23 year old, who's name ironically turned out to be Brown, would probably be in need of fresh underpants. "Holy hell, son, I haven't seen anything like that. I'd be shaking your hand in welcome aboard, but I'm still shaking from that one." The Major concluded upon approach, a fat cigar hanging from his mouth. Every bit your standard issue major, this one. "I'm honoured to hear it, sir," was the reply. "But I tell you, like I tell every other unit I'm transferred to, I won't be paying for wasted ordinance. That's your probelm, not mine. I'm here to train, that's all." "Well, if we don't learn somethign from you, I'll be a tanned snake in a salad bar, ya hear me." Mildly confused, but hiding it, he casually nodded, then made his way to his awaiting vehicle. A report to his synapses told him the three with the greatest potential to learn what he had to teach were ready for him. This short demonstration being only a minor diversion for him, he almost dreaded to see what this army would be like after his job was over. Thousands of armed individuals, able to dodge bombs and bullets, with an awareness surpassing most of the latest battlefield scanning technology. He smiled at the thought, then reflected. Once upon a time, nuclear weapons were to make conventional weaponry obselete. Then everyone got their hands on it. Now one superpower will have invincible soldiers. Still, he'd heard reports that another was damn near perfecting bio-mechanical soldiers perfectly suited to war and the third major power had begun mass production of a suit of combat augmentation armour said to turn ordinary men into tanks, with lesser powers using technology from genetic engineering to chemical augmentations to beef up their soldiers. And the rumour to end all rumours, the Technologists guild planning to release Energy Weapon technology to the world, a closely guarded secret that even a hint of comprehension of would result in celestial fire raining down on the suspected locations of suspected energy weaponry research faciliities, this really could only mean one thing. The world was ready to end.

I'm convinced that the pen membership numbers in excess of 366 and that every possible date is a birthday for someone. But 366 birthdays are 365 birthdays a year more than I want to concern myself with. So, this general happy birthyear goes to anyone and everyone. On this year, X years ago, you were all born. X = Your Age in human years There, I'm done If you were wondering what your presents were, I got you all boxes with nothing in them, but then needed the boxes for making an impenetrable fortress of boxy doom.

It's an inkblot Wait... wait... yeah, it's an inkblot

Ok, best cure-all known to man. It'll cure anything. Colds, flus, coughs, broken bones, gangrene, brain tumours, cancer, whooping cough, lickey end, mad cow disease, bird flu, SARS, the measles, the mumps, the chicken pox, the small pox and the bubonic plague in all it's forms, shapes and sizes It won't cure ADD, chronic depression or psychomania. As it doesn't see these as diseases Your diet at all non-disease times should include the following Broccoli - Excessive amounts. Garlic - Always important. Also keeps vampires at bay Water - Water - Water. You need these. You can eat whatever else you want, but make sure you get lots of the above When a disease of some description is contracted, you should do the following as early as possible Orange Juice - 2 litres a day Firey hot curry or equivalent spicy food - The hotter the better. Vege curries work better than meat ones, as meat tends to absorb the brunt of the spice. This is the only excuse for not eating meat anyone is allowed to use. OJ beats the crap out of the germs and viruses. Spice from curry makes you sweat like a motherless dog. Assuming, of course, that dogs that do not have mothers sweat in excessive amounts. Then wrap yourself up in some kind of thermalelectric blanket and go to sleep. Or try to. Make yourself sweat more You'll be better in no time flat Well, it works for me I suppose not eating junk, getting lots of exercise, fresh air and avoiding smokers, the dirty cantankerous cancer purveyors would work just as well But add broccoli. It kills cancer. It really does.

The Kings School. Private, expensive, a target of ridicule and hatred for all those who do not attend. Also has mad fields EVERYWHERE, just ripe for hooning. You cannot throw a halfbrick without hitting a field that's asking for a few doughies. But, like all good things in life, getting in is a challenge. For the Kings School is guarded fiercely. The guard, one anonymous rent-a-cop, armed only with his brightly marked car, his flashlight, possibly his baton and his blind hope that the little authority he has is enough to protect the treasure of the Kings. After a day of idling, waiting for my exhaust to be fixed, I was bitten. My car, new exhaust system, running better than before, sounding like some infernal cacophony. I had to drive. I had no other desire but to drive. To put this exhaust through it's paces. Burn it in. So we, myself and my large Brazilian friend and comrade, set off on a grand adventure that would lead us into the jaws of death. But our party needed a cleric, healer or someone of the sort. The closest we could find was Jesus. He was coming. He had no say in the matter and he knew it. The first idea was food, but food could wait. I'd been bitten. We all had. We needed to hoon. So our voyage took us to the far reaches of the land, to a remote place that just happened to have every man and his dog standing around, looking dopey. So we went and ate, then returned. Upon our return, we find the field of loose gravel totally empty. It was ours for the hooning. Suddenly, disaster struck. An official looking gentleman arrived and informed us that he had to lock the gate. This would entrap us unless we left right away. One handbrakie out of defiance and we were gone, in search of fertile new soils to plunder. The next target was another field, notorious for the sort of behavior we were practicing that night. With fields of loose dirt waiting for four wheeled nutbags. But once more, fortunes did not favour us. For the park was filled. People everywhere. With cars. Playing... tennis. That sport of derelicts and losers. That most insidious of games that takes up valuable network television time that should be devoted to children's programming, but isn't, instead being wasted on this mindless game that falls somewhere between paint drying and grass growing on the grand list of exciting spectator events. Still, in the depths of this place, we did find a small area that was adequate for our purposes. A little practice to get back into the swing of hooning and we were out of there. As we left, we dared another small hoon on the main arena, in perfect view of the tennis buffoons, then we were out, knowing that reinforcements would be coming directly. At some point on our little adventure, we witnessed an honest citizen being harassed by the authorities for the smallest of infractions. A broken tail light. How was he to know? He never looks at that end of the car. The two harpies in uniform must've realised this and let the poor individual go with a warning. We watched this from dangerous range, waiting for them to leave, knowing we were the next victim if we left first. Soon they were gone. We changed sides of the road and waited, hoping they would return. Sadly, they did not. Finally, we came before the great empire of the Kings. We knew the fate of all those who tried to gain entry to this fabled fortress. They never made it far. The last known expedition lasted a whole ten feet before the guardian had them cornered and, in the gruffest, most menacing voice he could muster, told them to leave the grounds immediately. But we were filled with courage, bravado and pure foolishness. We were invincible. We were gods. We were going in... and we were probably going to get shot trying. The gates were open. The drawbridge was down. Someone had drained the moat. Entry to the school could not have been easier. The guard wasn't even at his post. So we ventured forth into the grounds. At the first sign of movement, we halted, killed the lights and waited in silence for the end. This was when we caught our first glimpse of the guardian. He was escorting a trespasser off the premises. He hadn't seen us. Too engrossed in his capture, most likely. So we took this as a good omen and delved deeper into the lair of the beast. Inside, we found and loitered near several residences of sorts, whether they be student or teacher, we were not to know, but we knew that at any moment, death was certain. Out of nowhere, the guard or his hordes of manmonkey zombi ninjas would jump out of the bushes with machine guns and rocket launchers to tell us to move along. But no manmonkeys came. We pressed on, going deeper into unknown territory. Soon, we'd reached one of our objectives without realising it. A map of the grounds. Nice and confusing, totally worthless without intense study. We had no time for this, however. Onward we drove, into the unknown. To glory or death. It was about this time we witnessed the first sign of habitation, other than the guard at the entrance. Some dude working on a car or something. We doubt he thought anything of us, even though the car was loud enough to wake the dead. We passed him and made a startling discovery. The cricket pitch! The legendary cricket pitch of the Kings School. Larger than any cricket ground in history. Infact, larger than every cricket ground in history, all glued together. It was big, man. At that moment, we knew we were in the very heart of the enemy school. We knew we'd gone further than any man. And we were determined to live to tell about it. But first we had to chuck a handbrakie. How could we not? On our way out, we passed the guard. He'd decided to investigate the noise, but instead almost ran into us leaving the grounds, victorious. We'd done the impossible. We'd won. We'd beaten the guardian and we'd penetrated the very heart of that reviled school. We were legends, heroes. We needed more people. Now that we knew it could be done, we needed more people to do it. Our attempt to gather up more troops failed. Not that we tried hard. Lacking communications devices hampered our efforts, but we did try. We just failed. So we returned to the Kings School. We couldn't just leave it at that. We'd breached their defenses once, we had to do it again. This time, the guardian was awaiting our return. He had parked at the gate, facing outward. One pass and we'd located him. Another pass and we knew his alertness. On the third pass, we instead turned into the neighbouring complex, turned and parked facing the gate. He couldn't stay there forever. Eventually, he'd have to patrol again. To satiate that thirst all security guards have of making sure everything they can't see is secure. He never left his post. He knew there was no other way in, other than that gate. With his kingdom hooligan free, he was content to stand guard at the gates, ensuring they stay fast against all invaders. It was time, we decided, to use cunning. There had to be another way in. After a lot of wasted time and failed attempts, we found it. The sister school to Kings. Tara. There was a construction entrance just off to the side. We took this windy dirt road, merely to see where it went. How far did it go? Did the two schools join up/ They couldn't... that would be too easy. We took the road. We'd won again. We were back in Kings. We'd found the secret back entrance. First thing we did was head back to the cricket pitch, knowing full well the guard was still sitting at the front gate, feeling all smug and secure. Oh, what grass we tore up that time, my friends and allies. If only the car had been a little bigger, we would've left our black rubbery mark on the cricket pitch. It was decided that we had to exit through the main gates. But first, we loiter at that residence a little. We were sure he had to come. He had to know we were there. He didn't come. And I badly needed to take a piss. So, it turned out, did my compatriots. facing away from the vehicle, we all emptied our bladders, desecrating the grounds of the school. The ultimate victory, we decided. It was time to leave. On the way back, we ran into the guard. He was traveling up a road, toward a T junction. We were traveling across that junction. With a flick of the wrist, I gave the enemy the one finger salute and floored it. He gave chase through the narrow streets of the Kings School. Around a sharp bend, we lost sight of him to the rear. Almost taking out a low brick wall, we took a side route, stopped the car, killed the engine and the lights. Then we played the waiting game. We were fairly well concealed. Two cars parked behind us and trees to our side, the only way he could really see us would be to drive up next to us. He paused at the low wall, contemplating which route we took. The road that lead somewhere or the road that lead to the dead end. He went somewhere. Once out of sight, we left our hiding place, our spirits lifted by our successful ruse. Not only had we beaten our enemy, we'd humiliated them in the process. We returned to the main gate, our plan being to wait there for the guardian, for one last defiant gesture before retreating. Damn, he sure took his sweet time returning. We got bored at the gate waiting for him, so parked on the roundabout instead, facing the exit. He didn't come back. We got bored, so decided to loot the area. The hats of witches and several guiding posts were taken before we decided he wasn't coming back. Using a bright barricade, we blocked off the route back to the gate and left to deposit our booty elsewhere, incase of capture. Our loot offloaded, we were about to return, only to see him in the distance. We saw him leave his vehicle to move the barricade, then spent a small amount of time wandering the area, probably thinking that something was indeed missing, but unable to remember what. Then he decided to resume his patrol, incase we were still in the grounds. When he returned, he found us. Parked just inside the gate. Facing outward. Our car sprang into life and we left the grounds with one final parting wave. I'm sure he wasn't sad to see us go. He'd see us again that night. We weren't done with him. Not by a long shot. We took the secret entrance again. This time charting it, incase we had to use it as an exit. As we approached the gates, we decided to make the approach in reverse. Then my Brazilian friend and companion got spooked. Flashing red and blue lights. I swore they were on an ambulance, he swore they were on a paddy wagon. We decided it best to flee, incase he was right. Out of the school and onto the main road, we choose to do one more pass, just to see if the guardian had called for backup. We saw him alone at the front of the school. A broken man. Pissing on a tree. We gave him the parting gesture, only to have him return it in kind. We left triumphant. Entire security procedures would have to be rewritten from the ground up. Extra guards would have to be hired. More surveillance. Lockable gates. Oh, we'd well and truly conquored that place, my dear friend. We were the champions and we left behind us a broken opponent. Later it would occur to us that he would not be recording the events that happened that night, as it would mean more paperwork to him and admitting he lost and couldn't do his job properly. Which is why two transcripts of the nights events were recorded and taken to the furthest reaches of the earth for safe keeping, lest the enemy ever get their hands on the truth.

Nah, there's a whole bunch of l33t filters out there, so all you have to do is type, hit button, copy'n'paste and kazaam, you too are a 1337 d00d

That event happening at 8:50 on Valentines day really helped. You could say I'm a method writer. You'd be wrong, though

The tritone musical ring from her phone woke her from an uneasy slumber. Hard day at work combined from an uneasy silence from her other half had taken it's toll on the girl, now what little sleep she was able to snatch was being robbed at... eight fifty in the morning? Caller ID was unable to tell her who was disturbing her slumber, but she knew who it was before she answered it. "Hello..." "Come outside." The gruff, but still sweet voice of her boyfriend of six months, faltering from exaustion. She knew he'd had a hard week, but she was still annoyed at being scorned three days earlier. "I'm not wearing any panties, you come inside." "Then get dressed." "Urrgh!" She'd never been able to win with him. "Alright." She ended the call, claiming a small moral victory over him in her own mind. Searching her room, she found a tracksuit crumpled in the corner. Donning that, she went to the door. She looked like a mess. Like she'd just been woken from an uneasy sleep by a mobile phone next to her head, infact. Opening the door slightly, she stuck her head out. There he was, sitting on the bonnet of his car, looking down the street. He turned his head in her direction. Ever hopeful, she beckoned him. He merely mimiced her movement, then returned his gaze to whatever fixated him down the street. She sighed, fixed herself up as best she could and went to him, tredding carefully over her broken front yard. He watched her approach, her uneasy steps across the broken branches and driveway of her front yard almost amusing him. When she got to the road, he reached behind him, retrieved a single long stemmed rose and presented it to her. She took one look and laughed. He'd remembered. He was the worst person in the world for remembering dates, events, people, but he'd remembered today. She hugged him. "Kat..." He began, ignoring the arms around him, "It's over" As she heard this, the past month replayed in her mind, the few times they'd been together, the number of times he'd brushed her off, the long periods she couldn't reach him. She'd seen this coming. But why did he wait until today? "Yeah, I kinda expected it sooner." He smiled at this, his visage still weary from lack of sleep. His posture improved as an emotional weight fell from his shoulders. He gave a slight laugh. "I tried to do this sooner, but with work and all... this was the only time I could. But, because of the day, I had to get you the flower." She sniffed it. She could tell he hadn't gone to any great expense, but as a final gesture, she couldn't fault it. "Although I'll tell you," He continued, "Getting that label off the thing was an absolute bastard. And when I finally succeed, what do I see? The price section of it was perforated for ease of removal. God, I feel so..." She laughed slightly at this. His humour in all occasions, even when innappropriate was one of the things that had drawn her to him in the first place. She knew she'd miss him, but she felt no sadness. "Anyway, I've gotta go. Open and all." She understood his haste. She worked for the same company, she knew their expectations were high, she couldn't fault him for putting his job before his ex. She'd do the same and she knew it. They shared one final embrace before he left. She returned to her house, rose in hand. The final moment of indecision presented itself. She'd found a vase. Conveniently positioned above a bin. She shook her head. Life could be a real bastard, sometimes.

So what about people you dislike, despise, disrespect or wish cancerous death upon? How would you go about addressing them in such a manner as to cause shock and/or awe... er... dismay? Are the only options available misused titles based on their station in life and petty childish insults or are there a whole range of titles for people who are just begging to be smeared?

Irony - Electric appliance designed to get the creases out of your panties - Strange metal fifth letter of the alphabet worshipped by members of a deranged sesame street cult - Element that forms Steely when mixed with Carbony

I'm allowed to use it as an excuse. I'm Australian. Bagging out yanks is a national passtime down here. We're lobbying for it to become an olympic sport, and in doing so we'd win gold medal first time around, just for making it an olympic sport. Then we're gonna have to actually try when we're pitted against the canadian team.

Hehehe, on the flipside In Soviet Russia, Texas messes with YOU

To call america stupid is messing with Texas And you don't mess with Texas

It hung in the water, calling out to him, tempting him. Every instinct in his little body said "Eat it, eat it". He floated near it idly, fighting the urge to just bite the strange green meaty stripe. Because he knew it was death. He couldn't see the hook, but he knew it was there. Shiny death hidden well by that delicious-looking morsel. One bite and it was over. But that was the one bite he wanted to take more than anything. He'd already seen several of his friends and family snatched out of the water in this way. He'd lived long enough to know this wasn't how he wanted to go. But he couldn't swim away. The bait was too tempting. His body was sending urgently-hungry signals everywhere it could. Anything to make him bite. He fought them down, battling his instincts, knowing... knowing... what did he know. He silently cursed his three second memory, then bit into the conveniently placed snack hanging before him. PAIN! The hook had him. The barb had pierced his mouth and he was stuck. Now he remembered why he didn't want to eat the thing. Well, he guessed that was what he was thinking before. He felt his body being pulled upward, out of the water. "Ahh, got him, finally." The angler said to his camera-toting companion. "You getting all of this, Ray?" "Yeah mate, I got the whole thing. The little blighter just sat there. Trying to fool the thing or something." Ray replied, looking through the camera's viewfinder. "What now? What's next?" "I dunno, I've got all I need. Kiss it and throw it back or something." "Ahh, bugger off you toothless old bastard, I'm eating tonight." The two men packed up their equipment, deconstructing rods, reels and tripods. Ray fished his waterproof camera and it's aquapod out of the water and packed up his laptop. He'd gotten enough footage The fish had just paused there, as if pondering it's last meal on some philosophical level. He wasn't complaining. The footage was emailed to the studio that night. The next day, various people cut, spliced, edited, reversed and corrupted the images in as many ways as they could think of before deciding on the finished product. The final cut was cleaned up and sent to the networks. It finally aired during the world famous outdoor adventure show, "Hex Runt's Angling Fun!" Just after a segment about using natural bait. Cut to commercial, the world at large got to see the last few moments of the fish as he pondered life, the universe and taking the bait. Someone had even added a voiceover to that effect, to add a little authenticity. Everyone knew fish talked. Then it took the bait, was pulled from the water and held up by a grinning fisherman. Final part was a large white screen with a packet of the bait and the following, accompanied by a voiceover, across the top of the screen. "SuperBait! Fish say it's to die for!"

I use the excus, "It's the american way" whenever someone's questioning my excessive delegation that occupies everyone else and leaves me time to sit around, scratch myself in several places simultaneously and get paid for the pleasure

In ancient times, it used to be fertile and rich, with luscious beauty for all. Then the climate shifted, it turned to desert, then the wars, famines and pestilence and finally, you're left with a desolate wasteland that belonged to someone long ago and that someone's descendants are fighting over it now, jsut for the sake of fighting

Three bandits. Guns. Nondescript car with stolen plates. Sitting in an alley at about noon. Waiting. Timing was everything. They'd planned this for a month. Carefully scrutinised. Watched guard rotations. Taken down a complete schedule. And struck paydirt. When you do the same thing every week, week in, week out, it becomes routine. Your conscious mind tells your instincts the exact motions to go through. Then you run on autopilot constantly. Without actively thinking about the task, your instincts tend to erode. Not noticeably, they just dull a little. And if something changes slightly, they cannot adapt. The security flaw was when the armourvan came for cash collection. The target bank was in a high-cash area, so there was a daily cash collection. This happened midafternoon, when things tended to die down. But in the month they'd been watching, the armourvan had started coming five minutes later. But the time delay was activated at the same time, every day. The manager, in his fifties, had probably been doing this job since leaving highschool Old habits die hard. This was perfect. The time delay was open for a solid five minutes before security arrived. The day was Friday. Time: 2:23. The time delay would crack in two minutes. In seven, security would arrive. There were three bandits. That was three more than the bank had guards. Beancounters had analysed the risks and the technology and had decided that paying a man twenty dollars an hour to stand around and look intimidating was no longer necessary with the advent of time delay, surveillance and commonwealth insurance. So they would be the only ones with guns. One with a shotgun for crowd control. There wouldn't be too many people around. The bank tended to go dead just after lunch. No problems here. One with an automatic rifle. Could be considered overkill in a robbery, but this one had rounds designed to penetrate the fly-up screens that most banks had, these days. And the third one had a phone. Well, they all had phones, but as number three's forte was more driving at high speeds without getting caught or killed, it had been unanimously decided that he would sit in the car and double as lookout. 2:24. After the safe cracked, the manager would then return to his office to begin the necessary paperwork. The only other staff around would be a few tellers, as the part time staffs' shifts end when the rush does. Three, maybe four people, including the manager. They'd counted three customers enter and none of those people leave. So at least three customers were still inside. They would give themselves three minutes. They could secure the bank in thirty seconds with ease. All staff were trained to co-operate in the event of an emergency and most customers should be rather compliant when faced with a gun. And those that weren't? Well, they didn't load the things for nothing. Two minutes to get as much loot as they could carry. The bank also had safety deposit boxes, which would also be a target for the trio. Get what you can and run. Jewels were more valuable to them than cash, as they were harder to trace. Final thirty seconds for fleeing. Simple enough 2:25. The car rolled out of the alley. No one had seen it sitting there, as it had been positioned too perfectly. They'd been surprised that the bank had a history of 0 robberies, 0 attempts with that blind alley just sitting in perfect view. There wasn't even a camera, not even a hidden one on the thing. And this trio knew how to find cameras. Out the front of the bank was a convenient free park. They knew that bank regulations stated that the parking in front of the bank must be occupied by an employee, for security reasons, but security was too lax here. It wasn't the least bit surprising that they missed this. The windows were tinted almost black, so no passers-by could see their weapons. The car came to a halt in front of the bank with the engine running. The two armed bandits donned their facemasks, cocked their weapons and charged inside. 2:26. "THIS IS A HOLD-UP! EVERYONE ON THE FLOOR, HANDS OUTSTRETCHED, PALMS DOWN AND DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT TRIPPING THE ALARM OR THE FLYUP SCREENS, OUR BULLETS ARE ARMOUR PIERCING!!" shouted the rifleman , his weapon darting from one target to another. Perfect. They'd caught the manager on his way out of the vault. As soon as he'd seen the guns, he'd realised his mistake. This was one of the old style banks that valued customer perception over security, so the counter was vaultable. He then turned to the customers. Two of them were on the floor. One was still standing. 2:26:10. "Didn't you hear me, numbnuts?" He said to the upstart. The shotgunner stood, training his weapon on the man. This had been a possibility. One of the customers could have a weapon. Their routine was to ensure this was not so before going for the vault. 2:26:26. "WELL??! ON THE FLOOR". To this, the customer turned. In the rifleman's mind, time had slowed. The turn was too calculated, too deliberate. Something was wrong. He panicked. 2:26:31. The customer's expression didn't change as the bullet passed through his torso, just missing his stomach. He casually glanced down as a bloodstain began to spread out on his white shirt. He looked back at the rifleman, who had no idea what to do. The customer was still standing. He wasn't screaming, clutching his wound or crying like a baby, which was to be expected from anyone who'd just been shot. He was staring at his wound. 2:26:44. His head slowly rose and he looked the rifleman directly in the eyes. The look on his face was one of puzzled annoyance more than anything. 2:26:49. "You shot me. YOU SHOT ME! WHAT KIND OF A WORTHLESS, STUPID, PATHETIC EXCUSE FOR A BANK ROBBER ARE YOU?? WHAT KIND OF ROBBER SHOOTS SOMEONE IN A ROBBERY?? WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING???" HE was screaming at the rifleman at this stage, his face bright red in a look of pure rage. In his entire criminal career, the rifleman had never encountered this reaction before. 2:26:58. The shotgunner was just as puzzled. He had no idea what to do. He was nowhere near as assertive as the rifleman, he was just in it for the ride. In his life, he'd never shot anyone, normally preferring a riflebutt to the face to keep people in line. But they were usually on the floor, first. He had no idea how to react here. 2:27:01. "I'm bleeding here, you've wounded me, YOU'VE SHOT ME, YOU SON OF A WHORE!!" Yes, it hurt. It hurt like hell. But he was totally in control of himself, his body and his mind. Some called him the xen master. Others called him a freak. He didn't call himself anything. Turning off pain was one of the many things he knew how to do. Another was to stimulate his body's own healing mechanisms. No one realised it, but in the short time since the robbery had begun, his bleeding had already ceased. The large bloodstain conveniently masking this for him. He had, however, lost quite a bit of blood. He could feel his mind beginning to slip. He had to fight it, control it. He wasn't done, yet. Not by a long shot. And predictably, the bandits had been too busy trying to figure out what to make of his rantings to notice him take calculated steps toward them. 2:27:07. The rifleman was taken aback. Had he meant to shoot him? Confusion began to set in. Then fear. Somewhere in his mind, the realisation that his crime had become more severe formed. 2:27:09. The shotgunner had noticed the steps the wounded man was taking. He didn't know what he was doing, but some part of him was telling him to stop this man. He stepped forward, holding his weapon back to strike. 2:27:11. Ahh, the silent one moves. Well, not as he'd expected, but he could still work with it. He kept up his steady rantings and slow paces forward. 2:27:14. The rifleman stood fast as the customer continued to rant. It was all hitting home. He'd bungled it. He'd gone from the perfect crime to a bungled burglar facing aggravated assault, weapons handling and attempted robbery charges. And he'd shot someone in cold blood for the first time ever. This was all getting too much for him. But he didn't know what to do. Normally so assertive, but now feeling cold and helpless. 2:27:18. When he saw his companion begin to swing the shotgun, his spirits lifted. He silently thanked the big man for having the strength to act. 2:27:19. Then his spirits sunk. The customer had stopped the powerful blow from the shotgun with one hand, without so much as batting an eyelid. 2:27:19.53. The weapon was knocked at an awkward angle. 2:27:19.89. His hand had moved toward the barrel of the weapon. 2:27:20.12. He gripped the weapon and spun it. 2:27:20.45. The weapon easily slid from the grasp of the surprised shotgunner. 2:27:20.86. The shotgun was his 2:27:21. A lateral spin aimed at the shotgunner's head stunned the large man. A sweeping kick floored him. 2:27:22. The rifleman tried to fend off the incoming blow by blocking it with his rifle. He was too slow. He'd never prepared for this situation. 2:27:23. The butt of the shotgun crashed into the rifleman's ribs. A sickening crunch, followed by a pained groan, emanated from the rifleman. 2:27:24. The rifleman hit the floor, doubled over in agony. 2:27:25. The shotgun-wielding customer unloaded the shotgun, tossing it aside. He then reached down and did likewise with the rifle. Then he did a quick search of the two bandits. 2:27:37. Satisfied that the bandits had been subdued, he picked up his phone, dialed the police, then let his consciousness slip away, relying on modern privacy invasion technology to bring the police to his location post haste. His last conscious thought was, I really didn't need to do that, did I? The police arrived a few minutes after the security van, followed by an ambulance. The getaway driver had gotten away a minute after the first gunshot. That had been agreed on by all three from the start. If there was gunfire, the thing was canceled. If no one emerged in a minute, expect the worst and fall back to a secondary point, wait for a phone call for five, then get the hell out of dodge. Statements were made and all three injured individuals were treated at the scene. Within half an hour, all three were away. The aftermath: The stolen plates were found discarded in a park a few suburbs from the bank. The getaway driver and car were never found. The manager was retired by the bank with full benefits, his potentially devastating oversight was conveniently left off the incident report. The few staff and other customers were all treated for shock. One is still undergoing psychotherapy. A camera was placed on the blind alley and a security guard was employed fulltime, in the event of a future attempt. The time delay safe was refitted so that it could only be activated when security or a higher bank official was in the bank, using a new dual code system. The rifleman is still recovering in hospital under constant guard. His trial date is still pending. The shotgunner pleaded guilty to accomplice to attempted robbery and is awaiting sentencing. As for the wounded customer? After his first night there, he slipped away and was never heard of again. In an apparently unrelated incident, the evidence room of the police station was raided. thousands of dollars worth of narcotics went missing, which was reported. One flattened slug that had been pulled from a solid concrete wall also went missing. This was overlooked.

Oi! Watch your language, sheepshagger. I never want to see you using incorrect punctuation or capitalisation again.

Awe, c'mon, where else other than that post that clearly had a sign on it that said "TROLL THIS POST, I DARE YOU! I DOUBLE DARE YOU!!", when have I trolled? Hell, I think I've started more threads on this forum than I've replied to others'. So because of one thread that was begging for it, you've judged me a forum troll. Hehehe At age 21, I stereotype first, judge second. I'm told this is wrong, but 90% of the time, the stereotype fits. That's less thinking for me to do. If I can get by with as little thought as possible, I'm saving mental energy for myself. And since I don't want to associate with most stereotypes, I'm saving myself the effort at the start. And the 10% I do have to judge? Half of them are worse than their stereotype, a few more are just as bad, which leaves only a handful I establish some form of relationship with. I do this because I can. Sure, I could judge and attempt to connect with all and I'd probably find a few more people whom I wouldn't have spotted before, but I'd also have too many people who irritate me knowing who I am. At 21, I look back on everyone I used to be. But I don't just look at them. I look at them and everything around them. I can't understand why at age 5, I wouldn't say please, even if doing so meant I got what I wanted right away, but I can see that it was an important decision at the time. At age 11, of course I'd be suicidally depressed. My comfortable little world was collapsing. How could I react any other way. At age 15 I began my descent into madness. What triggered it? Any number of things. The sum of those things. Regardless, today at age 21, I'm proud of who I am. I enjoy life, I can't really say there's anything more I need, but I know this isn't the person I'm going to be the day I die. All I know is every decision I've made so far in life has been the right one. And as for the meaning of life? Well, I've got two theories. A god and a godless. I don't care what any book or church says about God, but if there is one and this deity did happen to create humans in it's own image, then I'd assume that anything a human is capable of doing was meant to be done. Otherwise it would've been left out of the design. But I can also see that from our humble beginnings, we were given the potential for greatness. We're only a few rungs above oblivion and cannot see the top of the ladder from where we are. Which would make a creator more proud? Climbing to the top or hitting bottom? And as for godless, well, if there's no god, the only reason we're here is because anything's possible and over a long enough timeframe, everything will happen, we're just destined to happen eventually. So we just procreate and die, see how long we can last against chaos. Oh yeah, Lumpy. *flips the bird* /troll

I a... wait, next forum's loaded, gotta go Woo for fast internet!!!

One day, I will change my life. Again. Something I do every now and then is to change my life. After years of silent contentment, an upheaval is what I need to keep me from cracking and drooping down to a level of mediocrity. I feel the time will be soon. There are always loose ends that need to be tied, that SHOULD be tied, but half the fun of changing your life is seeing what becomes of those loose ends. Although, all the ends with dollar signs attached must be tied off and fused with fire. I've had too many of those loose ends almost strangle me. My job is quite mundane at the moment. I enjoy my work, it's simple, requires little to no thinking, but I'm not going anywhere. I haven't achieved anything worth writing home about since starting. So that has to go. It won't be any time soon, but it will happen. I'll wait until I've saved up enough to survive several weeks unemployed, then I'll quit. There'll be problems, of course, but I'll deal with them when the time comes. Quitting isn't enough, though. People quit their jobs every day. It's just another stage in life. True, it's a small change, but it hardly counts as an upheaval. So when I quit, I'll make sure I have enough for the few weeks of unemployment, plus a new car. I've had my eye on one for a while, now. An HQ Monaro. That's the one I want. Deep blue, 383 Chev V8 engine powering the thing, manual of course, automatic being reserved for women and old people. Racing fats almost as wide as a small car on the back wheels. Not really necessary unless I plan to be draggin' in it, but they look cool, so I'm gonna get them. And twin exhaust. Two and a half inch, all the way, baby. Maybe turned down at the end, I don't know, yet. Beautiful cars, Monaros. So few of them left, but they do go for reasonable rates. My idea of a reasonable rate being around the five grand mark, with some restoration required. I'm almost there and I don't want to wait until I'm fifty to be driving the car of my dreams. That's way too old to enjoy it. I'll probably get the car before quitting, though. Give me time to restore the thing, give it a few touch ups, fix those niggly little things that shit me about it, as I know there'll be. There always are with second hand cars. But that'll be alright, as I'm required to give two weeks notice. Buy the car, quit, spend two weeks fixing it up, then I hit the road. Leave my phone at home, take enough clothes to last a couple of days and pick a direction. Not that there'll be too much hassle there. Living in a coastal city, east is already out and north and south are more holiday destinations. So I'll head west. Across the mountains. Over the plains. Maybe even out to the deserts. Recent upgrades to the roads have made heading west easier. One road is all I need to leave the city. One big road with a high speed limit. A perfect starting point for such a thirsty beast. Eight cylinders pumping in fifth, low revs, less petrol, the car'll sing. Maybe I'll have the radio on a classical station, maybe a metal. Maybe I'll just switch the radio off and enjoy the purr of the engine and the sound of wind rushing past me. Hopefully I won't be worrying about the horns of angry rivers or the sirens of police. But who can see the future? When I hit the mountains, I'll have to make a few stops. I'll have a camera with me, because I'll be a tourist at this point. Being more of an amateur photographer than a snaphappy holiday maker, I'll be enjoying photographing the scenic view more for the act of capturing it forever on silicon than having an image to reminisce over. An image in my mind stays forever. I don't need a reminder. But I know there'll be relatives who'll be expecting photos upon my return. And I won't be disappointing them, but they'll be secondary to the act of photography. Coming down the other side of the mountains, I'll shed my tourist persona. There isn't much on the other side, I already know. There's only so many cattle stations and pubs that are set up at the boarder of two main roads and three farms that you can see in your life before they become dated. Once I descend, I'll be exploring myself. Long distance driving is when I think the most. There's something about switching off and leaving my subconscious in charge of keeping me alive that relaxes me. What I'll be thinking about, I wouldn't know. Will I be in a relationship then? Will my current social circle be the one I'm still in? Or will I have moved on? And where do I see myself in the grand picture? These questions are somewhat rhetorical, as I'll be mentally discarding all answers as soon as I've pondered them. Even though I'm too intelligent to believe the notion that mental space is limited, I'd rather be devoting all thought to one idea, then moving on. Also, I already know whatever answers I come up with will mean naught when all is said and done. I accept who I am.. I like being me. If I could be anyone in the world, I'd choose myself. If I had to choose someone else, I'd choose someone else, just so I could wish I was me. Yes, I'll still be an egotist. Where will my driving take me? That, I cannot foresee. Every crossroad will require a dice throw to determine what path I take. Decisions like that I'd rather not make. And who cares if I get lost? I'll have nowhere to be and all the important people in my life'll know and accept that I may be a while. But I will have a map. At some point, I know I'll want to go home. But now I get ahead of myself. I'll still be driving out.. Maybe the dice comes up a constant stream of sixes. I head west and I keep heading west until fertile farmland turns to desolate sand dunes or rocky wastelands. Will homesickness set in before I hit the boarder? And if it comes up all ones? So I've crossed the mountains, only to head south. Or threes, sending me north? North west would be where I'd hope for. North for the weather, west.... well, because it's away from my home. Who will I meet on this journey? I'll be mixing with the locals whenever I feel the need. Why go to an armpit out past the black stump if not to speak to the locals? Can anyone learn about a place without talking to those who live there? Another fixation of mine is accents. I love how different people talk totally differently, but still in the same language. The slightest inflection on a word can change the meaning to one party, but not the other. Also, I enjoy pestering foreigners and accents are sometimes the best thing to go on. But how do people talk out west? I'd imagine slowly. They've got a lot of time on their hands. Can't rush agriculture. No need to say or do anything in a rush. Slowly but surely. As by thought, action and words. But that's just the opinion of a fast talking, fast thinking, illegal driving city boy. Based on nothing. The natives have started leading tribal lives again, but the taint of western culture is still with them. According to legend, they were always friendly and would welcome strangers, but now they try and sell them stuff, too. I'd have to go and spend time with them. Anyone with such a strong link to the earth has gotta know a lot about a journey into the centre of being. And I've always wanted to learn how to throw a boomerang. I hope to find someone I've never met. No one's ever met. Someone who's lived their life uninterrupted by the outside world. Alone, isolated. I want to know if such solitary figures still exist. The best way would be to meet one, shake his or her hand and ask them one simple question. A question with such deep ramifications as to shake our society to it's core. Or would, if I wasn't asking someone who'd shunned society in favour of solitude "Who would win in a battle between pirates and ninjas?" Yeah, a hermit would know the definitive answer to that one. By now, I will have found all the answers I seek and will have turned around. At first, I'd trust my senses to get me back home. They might succeed, they might fail. If they fail, there's always the map. Can't forget a map. I'll take the highways again, listening to country, classical or silence, depending on my mood. Maybe I'll be stopped by police. They seem to have a habit of stopping young people in big cars. No one's ever figured out why that is. But at some point, I'll once again reach the mountains. This time, they'll flash by, as I've already seen them. My mind tends to filter out irrelevant things I've already seen. Then I'll re-enter my city of birth. I'll return home. And when I reach home, the first thing I'll do is grab a newspaper and start circling want ads.

Tales from the Aardvark Orderly, informative, straight to the point: -5 Superior ratings system chosen: 25 Additional criteria added without obtaining legal permission: -10 Demonstrates actual knowledge of story content: 16 Rated an incomplete story that made it onto the board due to mindless error: 20 Gave it a bad rating: -100 Blamed it on responses: -100 Non-uniform result tally system: 50 Dared to ponder the notion that this thread was forgotten: -1500 Overall: (-5+20-10+16+20-100-100+50-1500) Log(Number of times Aardvark has signed an Almost Dragonic flashpaper contract with spontaneously combustible ink) = The Rating