Aardvark

Two thumbs up, one slightly crooked

Look for The Porkening. Posted in this very forum. True story, every last word of it

Wow. Hearald. Cool. I'm a man of few words, but I must know, what do I do as a hearald, aside from stand around, looking hearaldly, dead sexy, important and/or all of the above? Also, for all those who are interested, mankind's hope for the continuation of life was dashed when an unexpected universal cataclysm, known only as the great server reset, wiped the slate clean, leaving a blank sheet of nothing, fresh and ready for a big bang And I couldn't complete the final chapter. I have to give the authors of the old testament credit. It's rather difficult to write in the style of the days of yore, when men were men, women were subserviant and God was vengeful, especially when you're writing of the future.

Most people knew the world was changing. Few knew how or why, but most knew of the change. The new dictator of Earth had acquired all of his power through subterfuge, diplomacy, blackmail, extortion and assassination. He'd spent his life connecting with people, but assuming a non-threatening persona, becoming the assumed head of more conspiracies and clandestine organisations than any knew existed. Entire democratic governments were replaced with mere puppets, controlled by shadow councils that were controlled by him. So most people had no clue of his existence, but that suited him perfectly. The less people who knew, the less chance of him being bumped off in the night. He left the world running more or less the same as always, accepting that this system that had come about through centuries of social evolution just happened to be the easiest to control. But changes can always be made, nature can always be improved upon. And the naturally occurring social aspect that he disliked the most just happened to be religion. He saw it's place in the scheme of things, but it was old, slow, inefficient and inflexible. And the only way to shape an inflexible object was fire or force. He knew that. So he created The Regiment. Two hundred highly trained operatives. All of them fiercely loyal to his vision, to him. All of them having willfully given up their humanity to serve humanity, his vision of humanity. Men and women who had given their bodies and minds to science to enhance beyond normal limits. Two hundred highly trained, almost invincible soldiers who's sole purpose in life was to fight fanaticism. Our number had all the firepower and equipment required for the task, complete with the resources and connections to strike anywhere. Rarely would we need more than one of us. We operated quickly, suddenly and with such ferocious brutality that no warning could ever be let off, nor would our presence be detected until hours, sometimes days after the attack. Fundamentalist terror cells smashed, bloody cults wiped out along with their human sacrifices, hatemongers gunned down in the streets. All attributed, funnily enough, to opposing religious factions. Off duty is merely a formality you endure when you're life is dedicated to one task. In this foreign land, I looked like a foreigner. People tried to avoid me, look through the corner of their eyes. I ignored them while I indulged myself in one of my few passions outside of my work. Architecture. I'd always admired ancient structures and building designs and techniques from distant eras. The Regiment simply allowed me to take my passion to different lands. Using the ancient technology of pencil and paper, I sketched old structures, attempting to reconstruct blueprints from the final product. Being denied access to the structure did hamper this, but it did happen to be an ancient temple and I was a filthy foreigner. Being interrupted really did annoy me, but my senses told me that a higher law was being violated when the young woman ran headlong into me, being pursued by two large men, both dressed in clean white garb. Running into my mechanically enhanced frame must've felt to her like running into a brick wall. She collapsed to the ground and I barely budged. The two men caught her and dragged her away from me. "See here people! See how she dresses disrespectfully! She flaunts her body like a common street whore!" one of them was shouting. A crowd of people, having already gathered to witness the apprehension, was growing larger rapidly. As I looked on, my blood began to boil. "Look how she lewdly displays her flesh! No decency whatsoever! Little more than an animal!" A number of females in the crowd, all dressed like it was winter, had begun to hurl insults at the girl. It was taking all my discipline as a soldier to bide my time. A third man had pushed through the crowd. He was wearing the dress of a man of God. I silently scoffed. "My brothers and sisters. I stand before you to pass judgment upon this... this... ABOMINATION in the eyes of the lord." The translator chip in my head was compensating for dialect and language variances, so nothing I heard was truly accurate. If required, I could replay the entire event to a translator, but for now I was hearing all I had to. "It is our responsibility to force this creature to atone for her sins." He was holding the girl by her hair at this point. "The sin of Vanity is a deadly sin indeed. If needs be, we shall purify the souls of the deviant in holy flames, so sayeth the lord!" The cheer that went up among the crowd tipped me over the edge. Regiment informal dress consisted of whatever we wanted, covered with a long coat. As most of our enhancements were anything but visually appealing, this served to allow us easier integration and also gave us storage space for weapons. I only carried one weapon. The scepter of my station. A large steel rod, atopped with a brass skull, jaw hanging slightly open with a crack just offcentre. Almost unwieldy to any normal human, but for someone of my "stature", it was perfect. I lept at the closest thug, bringing the butt of my scepter into his jaw, I heard the familiar crunch of bone as it connected. My electronic ears nullified his agonised screams as his body fell to the dusty ground. A wild backswing brought the brass skull in contact with the skull of the second thug, flooring him without any complaints. Whether he survived the impact was of no concern to me. Finally, I turned my attention to the holy man. "Who art thou, demon? Who sent you?" He intoned, summoning up his reserves of pride to compensate for his lack of courage. The pistol he leveled at me also helped. He'd forgotten about the girl, self preservation taking over. She lay on the ground, dazed, trying to take in what was happening. "Your god cannot save you now, you wretched subhuman." I ended my sentence with a light jab to his abdomen. He instinctively doubled over, allowing me to grab him by the scalp. "Now hear this, all of you. In the eyes of your God, you are all equally worthless. And he created me to ensure you all remain that way. If displays of this nature continue among you, I shall return to you." The people stared silently at me, paralysed with fear. This was one of my few public appearances. I didn't feel like partaking in a bloodbath this day. I threw my cloak aside. Before them stood the Commander of the Regiment. The first. The highest. Known to his men as Unhuman. I only had the barest shred of humanity within me. Segments of my brain and nervous system were all the flesh that remained, sustaining my mind and soul. My body constructed of blackened titanium, with plated electroconduits running down the length of my body. My clothes consisting of little more than the belt that carried my scepter, my padded coat hiding my inhuman form from the world. Then I removed the mask hiding my true face. My face was my greatest feature. A sculptor who'd probably never even possessed his own marbles to keep a firm grip on was brought in for the job. With all functional components in place, the rest was constructed out of small rectangular metal rods. My face was the corrupted image of humanity. Anyone who looked into it could swear they were looking in a twisted mirror. None knew how the artisan had managed it, but he had created the ugliest image of everyone and given it to me. It was my greatest feature. Quite often a more powerful weapon than my scepter. It worked it's magic here. Some members of the crowd screamed, some feinted, most turned and took flight. It was here I employed another offensive addition to my body. My vocal cord had been enhanced with a resonance amplifier. It had been tuned to such a degree that it made the eardrum vibrate. It wasn't really sound you were hearing, but sound being generated by your own ear. Loud, obtrusive and difficult to block out. Broadcast in a myriad of languages, but in such a way that even the slowest of minds would pick out the message from the cacophony. "I shall return. And the wrath of your god shall follow me, laying wake to all those who would use his name for such inhumanities. Run, fools. Tell others of your experience today and tell them to return to see their fate, lest they ignore your words." With that, I gripped the holy man's scalp tighter and easily flung him into the air. Being at ground zero, his eardrums must've almost hit bursting point. But he didn't have too much time to worry about that, as his body was impaled on the ancient iron spikes of the temple's fence. I pulled my skin mask over my visage, strapped my scepter to my belt and donned my coat. Once more, I passed for human. I turned to continue my sketching, only to notice the girl who'd started all this. Bioscans told me she was in a state of shock, brought on by the ordeal, capped with the aural assault she'd inadvertently received. I continued the scan, revealing significantly higher muscle mass and bone density than an average girl her age. A neuroscan also revealed heightened electrical activity in her cerebrum. I pondered briefly. I retrieved my notebook and stowed it within my coat. I offered her my hand, which she accepted without word. Whether or not she could guess what was in store for her, I didn't care. For we who stand so proud in defense of the many are few in number ourselves. But there was nothing stopping us recruiting.

Someone go search the Legion boards for the story Blue. Also, the sequal, which came about a year later. And any other stories I've ever composed there that weren't lost in the server jump. But if you can get a hold of Blue, bonza mayte

I resolve to smack anyone in the head who refuses to do something "Because it was my new years resolution"

It starts with the idea. No, not the idea. Not the idea at all. The.... I don't even know the word for it. Like an idea, but from the right brain, rather than the left brain. The imagination. What is a thought from the imagination called? They don't come as single sentences, paragraphs or pages, all logically lined up and ready to be plotted down on paper for corporate exploitation. A dream? Not really. Dreams play out over a time. This is a thought. A flash of inspiration. One moment, there's nothing. The next, an entire battle, a romance, a final confrontation between mortal nemisises. I couldn't tell you right away exactly what is being said, what the wind feels like, but I know. As clear as a childhood memory. Once I've grasped this... whatever... I must write it down, somewhere. My dilemma is I cannot write. Well, this is not entirely true. I can write. About as legibly as your average 8 year old doctor. But I type almost as fast as I consciously think. So I cannot really put my.... let's just use idea for now, although it doesn't really suit what I'm thinking about.... to paper... or .txt file as it were, unless I have access to a computer. Sometimes these ideas just float away as soon as they strike me, sometimes I can keep them several hours/days until I can type once more. So I sit down and type. The story itself is in my brain, all there. Some say a picture is worth a thousand words, just imagine a picture that isn't one instant in history, but several minutes/hours/centuries. That's what's sitting there, waiting to be told to the world. This is planted on the page. As I type, details just form around the idea. The exact witty one liners, minor characters, subtle details that alter the entire story... wait, where did this come from?

Don't keep us hanging, out with it woman

If I ever got to go back and give my former self advice, I'd just give him a tape with a copy of one song Not the Sunscreen song John Safran (To the tune of Baz Lurhman's Sunscreen song... duh) If you're unsure about what you're going to do with your life, Try to remember, some of the most interesting people didn't know what they were going to do at age twenty-two or even at forty, and nearly all of them are unemployed drug addicts forced to live on cat food. Also understand that friends will come and go, this is because of your irritating personality, nobody likes you. So if the only thing getting you thought the day is the misconception that people like you, end it now. (bang) Learn how to smoke Winnie Blues, if you're under aged, get an older kid to buy them for you. Get to really know your parents, they're good for money, milk them, then put them in an old people's home. Travel as often as you can, live in New York City once, live in Northern California once, never live in Adelaide, It's a hole. Maybe you'll marry, maybe you won't, maybe you'll have children, maybe you won't, if you do have children, lock them under the stairs. Do one thing each day that scares you, sing, dance, jump in front of a car. Do not trust anyone who tries to update Sheakespeare for the kids, and if you see Quindon Tarver in the street, punch him in the face for me. (smack) If you're worried about the way you look, try to remember, you're probably fatter than you think, maybe you should consider an eating disorder. Don't worry too much about the future. If you're nervous about an exam, ring up your school to schedule time, and make a bomb threat. If you're a girl, lie about period pains to get out of anything you don't want to do. Cheat if you think you can get away with it. Remember, someone with richer parents is getting private tuition. Shop-lift as often as you can, Shopping Centres factor shop- lifting into their prices, so if you don't do it, it's like they're getting money for free. When you're on work experience, steal a cab-charge, and take a Taxi to Perth. Wear sunscreen, but only if it's that coconut oil that gives you cancer. Keep your old love letters, if you see an old lover in the street, try to run them over in your car. Don't mess too much with your hair, or else by the time you're thirty-five, you'll look like Greg Matthews. Remember you can wear your underwear four times without washing them, Forwards, Backwards, inside-out Forwards, inside-out Backwards. (bang bang bang bang) Congregate in gangs around train stations and shopping centres, it's a free country, It's public space. Skateboard on War Memorials. Smoke in your School uniform. Set off car alarms. Plant Drugs on a teacher. Join a cult. Spike Drinks. Don't flush public toilets. Remember, only you will truly take care of you, so carry a concealed weapon. Don't wear your 'P' plates. Walk around with your eye lids rolled back. Touch your tongue on the tip of batteries. Be open to new love. Remember, you can't get pregnant the first time you have sex. Expect others to support you, it's easy to get the dole and still do cash in hand work. Respect your elders, when your grandma dies, have her stuffed. Be kind to your knees, you'll miss them when you're knee capped by a loan shark. Get revenge, don't forgive anyone for anything, But most of all, don't aim too high, you're probably only suited to an office or factory job.

Quick as a flash, Aardvark draws his old Scrabble bag-O-letters and tosses them at the incoming As, forming words which promptly disappear into thin air, leaving a digital score based on the number of letters in each word, before fading away. "We meet again, Mr Shathward. But this time, I came packing. And... Ant.... Asp... Apple.... you're too slow Mr Shaftward" As the goose spits faster and faster, the Aardvark's brain works overtime, dredging old, ancient, long-since-forgotten A words that still count, knowing that one misspelled word could be his last. Sensing his supply of letters running short, he decides it be time to do something magical with the last. "Eat.... ANTIDISESTABLISHMENTARIANISM!!!!!!!" As the final M falls into place, an faint square marked Triple Word Score pops up out of nowhere, creating a phenomenal result.

Dude, thbink of it this way. Take my advice. I'm Aardvark, amn. And I'm drunk. So that's two reasons why I know what I say This chick... fuggitabout her. There's three BILLION other women in the world. Even after you eliminate the ones that are too young ro too old or too foreign, that sill leaves hundreds of millions. Now, let's say X is a whole number. Say 5. Five percent of those hundreds of millions are compatible with you. That's like... One twentith of hundreds of millions. That's a lot. That' more than a lot. Hell, you can't describe that many without swearing, which I won't do, despite the excessive vodka flowing through my bloodstream. So no matter how depressed you are, remember this. That chick isn't the only chick in the world. Infact, you could safely forget about her and still have a fair shot at happiness, marital bliss or hedonistic... whatever those hedonites get up to in their spare time. Remembr, there's about five hundred thosuand females out there, probably more, who are compatible in some way, shape or form. Given enough time, you'll snare yourself one of them. If you're impatient, just take a page out of someone else's book and get one of them drunk, then act nice when they wake up for a few weeks, then they'll get to know you and bickety bam, you've got someone else Sorry, who are you again? I'm drunk and I'm armed with teh interweb, so tyou should be warey of the loads of poorly typed garbage I spew like a lightweight at a pissup after eating twenty bucks worth of kentucky fried

What does the word pomp mean?

He saw her for the last time in the place they'd first met. By the side of a man made lake in the middle of a park. She was staring out over the water, silently, unmoving. This told him all he needed to know. She'd finally dumped that arsehole she'd left him for. She knew he was watching her. She'd noticed him earlier, on his afternoon jog around the lake. This was where they'd first met. God, how she'd kicked herself for hurting him, but pride prevented her from running back into his arms. She knew they would open for her. She knew everything about him. Which made her even more ashamed. Which could be why she picked now, the half hour out of his day he'd devoted to his afternoon jog to come here and stare out over the water. Should he say something? They hadn't spoken much since then. He'd been hurt, but he wasn't the fighting type. He'd just let her go. His reasoning had been he'd rather take the pain than hold her back. God, he'd been a fool. Hindsight and Afterthought had revealed the numerous occasions he could've ruined their relationship and taken her back. Still, he watched her. Why didn't he come over? He knew this is where she went when she was upset.The waters of this accidental lake calmed her. She'd come here since childhood and hadn't known the history of this lake until she'd met him. A burst watermain, he'd told her. They'd never found it and had never been able to drain it properly. So they admitted defeat and built a park around it. She'd laughed then. Thinking back almost made her laugh, but he was still watching. She hadn't moved. She must've seen him earlier. He knew her too well. Was she angry with him? Still devastated from being dropped by that bigshot with an expensive car? He thought he almost saw a tremble, once. Was she trying to ignore him? Or was she still as proud as ever... he smiled to himself. She heard his jog start up again. He was leaving? She had to stand, say something. But she couldn't let herself. Despite her berating herself over and over, she still couldn't admit her mistake. She silently willed that he'd stop, pat her on the shoulder, or just slow down and call her name. Anything. Acknowledge me, she cried silently. He jogged in a circle arc, just like he had the first time. She'd been sitting in that exact spot at this time, three years previously. To the day? It felt like it, but he rarely gave thought to such poetic romance notions. He saw her shoulders slump. She thought he was leaving. A small part of him wanted to leave. That small part wanted her to feel alone, abandoned. But he couldn't. Even after the long months without her... Her spirits lifted. He was coming back. Just like the first time...She turned. Heavens, he hadn't changed a bit. Same boyish looks, same daggy outfit. God, she'd been a fool to let him go. She got to her feet as he approached. He stopped. The two of them stared at each other, waiting for the other to make a decisive move. Endless moments.... he'd had too many of them in his life. This wasn't the time. He took the initiative and a step forward. She saw him break the stillness first. Her ego was satiated. He was running back to her. Even though her heart said otherwise. She took one step, then another, slowly closing the gap between them. He couldn't believe it. They were playing it out almost as it'd been the first time around. He reached out his hands. There'd been more words, years ago. And the whole encounter had lasted longer. But he didn't mind this silent, abridged replay. She took his hands in hers, His grip was stronger than it had been. Making up for lost time, she thought. She smiled. They locked gazes and stood together, both thinking the same thing. Why had it ended. Why had she left. How long would this last. Their thoughts, their wishes, combined as one. An endless moment. Their wish was heard. By whom, they would never know. But to them, time froze. The pair were together, once more. The ripples had frozen on the lake's surface. Children playing a short distance away were frozen in midair, reaching for a ball that would never come down. Never to be separated. Traffic around the park had come to a standstill. Drivers sat behind the wheels, unmoving. A pedestrian was frozen moments away from an accident. Lights were frozen, but the traffic wasn't moving, defeating their purpose. Together.... frozen in an endless moment... Around the world, the same image was repeated. Aircraft hung below the clouds, seacraft sat on frozen seas, all forms of transport stood still. ...Forever... Continuing existence had ended for love.

Aardvark is the first to take the mic. "Well, Mr Winger, it's like this. Se.... OH NO!!! AN A-BOMB!!!!" Aardvark dives for cover just as a large metallic object crashes through the roof and explodes, showering everyone with alphabetti soup, missing the last twenty five letters of the alphabet. "Aye, didn't see that one coming, did you?"

Sitting in the waiting room of the courthouse, I met one of the oddest individuals I'd ever seen in my life. First impressions were he was a one armed biker with an ingrained hatred of the world and was probably here on a murder charge or something. Then logic kicked in, ruling out the possible criminal act. He hadn't looked at me, the scowl on his tattooed face seemingly etched out of stone. He hadn't even shifted to so much as get a little more comfortable since he walked in and sat down. Curiosity got the better of me, as it tends to. My curiosity has veto power over my sense of self preservation, sometimes. I moved over next to him. He didn't even shift to see what I was doing. "Hi! What're you here for?" "Geeze Kid, it took you long enough. How long were you staring at me over there? Ten, twenty minutes?" "I'm sorry..." "Don't be, I get this all the time. That's what I get for being a one armed biker in a courthouse, I suppose." I gave a half hearted laugh, before he turned and offered his good arm to me "Mervin." He stated, in the gruffest biker voice he could manage "Ishmael." I replied "That isn't your real name, is it." "Is Mervin yours?" "Well no, but that's what everybody calls me." "Ok, I'm pilfering your answer and using it on your question." He roared with laughter at this, revealing his stump to me. It must've been new, as the limb had been covered with flesh coloured bandages. Before I could ask my question again, he spoke. "Yeah, I'm a one armed biker in trouble with the law. But this time, I'm in the right. Speeding fine, I tell you." He pulled out a small piece of crumpled paper. "Since when is it illegal to go forty five over the limit in a school zone? I mean, c'mon. Speed cameras got me. You can't explain to speed cameras why you were chasing some dickhead through the backstreets at whatever speed they reckon you're going. I swear, machines will be the ruin of society." "Wow, how fast were you..." "Christ, do you listen? I just told you forty five over! Jesus, the youth of today." I was taken aback by this, but was more curious than ever. "Why were you..." "Chasing that bastard? I'll tell you why. No, I'll show you why. This is why!" He thrust the bandaged stump at my face. "That worthless whore took my goddamn arm. He just rides up to me, cool as you like, pulls out some evil demon axe of some description and lops my left arm off at the elbow! Then he takes off with the thing, like all the demons of hell are about to hunt his arse down!" "Were they?" "Nah. but I was, which is worse." "Did you catch him?" "No! He rode through six lanes of fast moving traffic, managing to avoid three semi trailers. Sure,I love my arm, but I love living more, so I stopped. I tried to hunt him down, but came out empty handed." "So why are you hear?" "Why else?" He spat on the piece of paper. "I'm contesting the speeding fine, on the grounds that some total, utter, complete bastard had just stolen my arm. And I've got the missing arm to support my case." He thrust his stump in the air and shook it around a bit." "So where was the speed camera?" "In the school zone where he took my arm!" Something was still bugging me at this point. "How did you chase him with only one arm?" "Look at me. Seriously just look at me." I did just that. I saw a fat middle-aged biker, complete with long, unkempt beard curving over his beer gut, no other hair on his head, except for the mustache and the... ear hair? He had a tattoo around his left eye of some kind of snake/bat/rabbit/porcupine crossbreed. I really couldn't tell what it was. He also had more scar tissue on his face than unblemished skin. His arms were about as thick as me and even without a lower arm and hand, he still looked like he could kill me with his stump. "What am I looking for?" "I'M A FREAKING MONSTER!" He stood to his full height. Christ, he was almost seven foot tall, built like a tank. No, built out of tanks. Hell, he resembled one of those giant transformers that are made up of smaller transformers. No, screw that, if I was going to use transformer analogies, he was Unicron. Hell, I don't know about the planet, but he could've eaten me in three bites. He was bloody massive. "Well, I don't know about monster..." "I'm huge. I'm colossal. I could headbutt my way through a bank vault, no worries. Do you think I'd have a problem handling my Hog one handed?" "Well, uh..." "And he was driving like a rank amateur, anyway. If I'd had two arms, or even if I wasn't spurting blood everywhere and beginning to go dizzy from bloodloss, I could've caught the arsehat. And that demon axe would've been going in a very uncomfortable place for normal people." "Normal people?" "I'm assuming he was used to that sort of activity. Don't you be looking at me funny. I could kill you with my stump." "That thought had occurred to me..." "So that filthy vagabond escaped with my arm and all I got was this lousy ticket." I was about to reply, when I heard a bailiff call my name. "Love to stay and chat, but I've really gotta go." "Wait a bit... you never told me what you're doing here. "Well, it started when I found this demon axe..."

*I spy, with my little eye, something be-" "Roadkill" This game had been going on for a while now. The world at large was unaware of it, all noise of the game being drowned out by the loud engine of the truck as it rolled through the quiet suburban streets. The two players were Scott, the dim one: "How did you guess that, you cheated, didn't you?" And Paul. The not so dim, but still quite bloody stupid, sometimes: "Yeah, I cracked open your skull and read your brain... you know I can't read" They were both drunk. They were both very, very drunk. "I spy with my little eye, something beginning with Bee." Paul was driving. It made no sense, as neither could drive straight in their state." "Beer" Still, for a man who would set off every breathalyser within a hundred miles if he sneezed, he was steering the beast of a machine with ease. He knew what he was doing and where he was going. Which made one of them. "Yeah, I could go for a cold one right now. Any left in the esky?" Scott fished around in the icebox, producing a pair of beer cans. The two simultaneously crack the beers open on their teeth, before each downing half a can. This was when Paul decided to slam on the brakes, causing mass spillage. "There's one right there, it's perfect, GO GO GO GO GO!!!!!!" He shouted excitedly. Scott, who hadn't even recovered from the beer in the face was already out, carrying with him the angle grinder he stole from his last job. Half a minute of loud noise and sparks later, the two had themselves a decorative mailbox which someone paid good money for. Into the back it went, then the two continued on. "The bitch left me, again." "I keep telling you, dude. Forget about her. Hell, if I can pick up, you can. Stop acting like such a goddamn woman." "Hey, screw you, this time it wasn't my fault. She walks in on Jerry and Allison going at it hammer and tongs on my bed, thinks it's me and another guy and won't listen to reason" Paul stopped to scratch his spine before replying. "I told you, they're not worth the heartbreak- THERE!!! PERFECT!!! GET IT!!!" In a flash, Scott was out of the truck, angle grinder in hand. This time, the victim was a parking meter. In moments, the meter, the grinder and the drunkard are back in the truck, heading out of there. "Like I said, chicks aren't worth it. Unless you find the one in a billion whom I already snagged. "I guess, but I loved her, man." "That's what you said last time my dealer dropped by, last time I checked the mail and last.... wait, what was I talking about?" "I've got no idea, man... WATCH OUT FOR THAT SQUIRREL!!!!" CRUNCH!! The ute came to a screeching halt and Paul jumped out to have a quick look around his car. He stopped by the front left wheel, tested it, then got back in. "Don't worry mate, it was a cat, not a squirrel. We don't get squirrels down here, you silly drunk bastard. And my tyre's fine, thankyou very much. Just forked out a grand for the set and all of a sudden, every feral animal in five hundred miles comes running at 'em" The wavery drunken journey continued down the suburban streets, until Scott screamed "HALFBRICK" Paul slammed on the brakes and jumped out to grab the broken brick.Now they were armed. "What should we do with it?" "I dunno. Maybe if... FORD!!! SPEED UP!!! SPEED UP!!!." Paul floored it toward the offending vehicle while Scott hung out the window, halfbrick armed and ready. As they passed, Scott simply tossed the brick out and let the momentum from the truck send it flying straight through the back window of the thirty thousand dollar automobile. The next several streets the ute took were erratic and at higher speed than normal, as Paul tried to lose the non-existent police who were sitting around the ford, just waiting for someone to halfbrick that car. A bystander would've heard a lot of giggling as the ute sped past them. "Hehehe, we got him good..." "What else should we get?" "That stop sign" No sooner had the words been voiced, Scott was out with the angle grinder, cutting down the sign. Scott, a drunken master at public property theft, had id in the back of the truck in moments. "Hmm.... this blade doesn't look too good for wear... I think they're making poles out of stronger stuff. Like titanium. Or adamantium. Or something." "You retard, there's no such thing as adamantium." "There so is, I saw it in that movie." "Of course you saw it in a movie, retard, it's a fictional metal." "Ohhh... well, maybe not adamantium, maybe kevlar or something." "Kevlar's only strong against impacts, it cuts just like any other plastic." "You know too much for a drunken man. I believe you need more beer." "I'll drink to that, pass me a tinnie." Scott opened the esky. To his horror, the only thing staring back was melted ice and a can of coke. "OH HELL, WE'RE OUT OF BEER!!" "You're joking, we drank it all that quickly?" "Not really quickly, it is four in the morning." "Ahh, bugger aye, I've gotta work tomorrow." "I thought you quit your job?" "As far as the tax office is concerned, I did. Don't you say a bloody word to anyone about it, ya hear?" "Hey, my lips are sealed." The journey home went in relative silence. Except for that quick stop to try and steal the traffic lights, which ended in disaster. Well, disaster for Scott, who had to replace the disc. "Ahh, home, sweet home. Château De Scotty. You're welcome to stay the rest of the night, dude." "Nah, I've got an early start. Infact, I think I'll just head to work now." "What is it you do again?" "Courier." Scott was laughing all the way inside his house, random stolen items in arm. Paul was chuckling for a while. Ahh, how could he top that one. Turning onto the main road, he was still laughing at himself. Laughing, right until he saw the blue lights flash in his rearview. "Awww, crap..." The cop had his breathalyzer in hand as he approached the ute.

That still doesn't answer the question at hand Favourite colour. Now! Then justify your choice. Failure to do so may result in you being subjected to catapult

With enough practice, one can run through a crowd at full speed without even touching another person. Or one can run wide-eyed, screaming "They're after me, they're after me", and watch the puzzled public stand aside. He'd chosen the latter. Effective, if not subtle. When you think you're being chased and your life is in danger, subtlety goes right out the window. Like all good paranoid delusionists, he believed invisible men were after him, trying to steal his thoughts. And now that their cover had been blown, they had to kill him before he told anyone. That's the message he'd left on the answering machines and voice mails of all his family and friends. All were mysteriously out. To them, they were at their jobs, leading their normal lives. To him, it was the conspiracy at work, cutting him off from those he could trust. The messages were the usual, tell the media if he disappears, because they're after him. Darting from the crowded street into a side alley, he tried another number. An old aunt. He knew she was senile and probably asleep at this hour, but hopefully one of her nurses would pick up the phone and at least take a message. That would be enough. Any form of communication to make the public aware of it. He hadn't stopped running and was soon back on another road, trying to lose himself in another crowd. This one he took with a little more tact, slowing down and trying to mingle. Being rather short, he had a height advantage. For years, they'd been working on him, observing him, recording his phonecalls, keeping track of his patterns and introducing various stimuli into his world, just to gauge his reaction. Sure, that bluebird LOOKS like an ordinary regular bluebird to any ordinary person.... He tried not to look behind him, praying he'd lost them. But they were clever, they wouldn't give up so easily. Taking it easy through this crowd, he mingled with a large mass crossing at a large intersection. This was one of the ones where all traffic at the intersection is halted and people are allowed to walk anywhere. Options, that's how he'd lose them. They couldn't only have so many people after him, he had to force them to choose right or wrong paths to cut their numbers down. And like all good paranoid delusionists, he'd armed himself, just incase one of the invisible men ever showed themselves. His vehicle was close. Parked in an underground lot underneath a shopping centre. He took the front entrance to the centre, keeping in the middle of a large group of people. Then he took a gamble, broke off and headed for the stairs. He always took the stairs. There is something soothing about a loud echo that reveals all but the stealthiest of the stealthy that is comforting to someone who believes invisible men are out to get him. And being paranoid, he'd taken it upon himself to become one of the stealthiest men alive. Which was how he wanted to stay. When he reached his level, he peered out. His eyes went from one vehicle to the next, checking for the telltale signs of a surveillance team. No black vans in view of his car, mostly smaller cars, all locked, none with tinted windows. He flitted by each one, checking inside, just in case. He owned many vehicles, all fairly old, but all common models and generic colours, all with several sets of plates. He had them all parked in various places around his home and would move a few of them around each night. He believed he was blocking off the most convenient places to park surveillance vans around his house. The police wouldn't see it that way, as none of his cars came up on the registry computers. But he drove defensively, almost mindnumbingly, so no policeman had ever troubled him. More than once, he'd had a car towed, which was another reason he moved his cars around every now and then. As he got near his cars, he started to breathe easy. They hadn't found him. He fished around in his pocket for his keys, found them, then unlocked his car. One day more alive. But they were closing in. He could feel it. He started his car and slowly made his way to the exit. Those invisible men, they could be anywhere... He slammed on the brakes, drew his pistol, turned around and looked in the back seat. None of the seats had impressions that one would expect if an invisible man were occupying them. He prodded the air with his weapon, just to make sure. Satisfied, he turned back and buckled his seat belt. --- The newspaper had been tossed into the alley by a random vagrant. It would probably end up being used as a blanket for a homeless person, but for now was lying there, inoffensively. The crossword had been filled in already, but no one had spoiled the brainteaser. A gust of wind blew the paper back a few pages, skipping the funnies, but stopping on a small story on the left hand side of page six, half way down. An explosion in an underground parking lot. No one reported injured, but tyre marks from a speeding car were found heading out. No attendants had been available to make statements, as they'd all fallen ill from a bad coffee brew earlier, leaving the parking lot in the capable hands of the machines. A careful ear may have heard a muttered curse in this empty alley. Had there been a careful ear around, the keen eyes attached to those ears may have seen a muddy bootprint form in the middle of the page, then another one two feet away, followed by a third one in a shallow puddle...

Gwai, why did you choose now to remind everyone of that?

My answer to this question is always green. When asked for further details, I answer with, "IT'S GREEN, DAMNIT!", then scream and run away. To date, there have been 0 follow ups

I've just changed my opinion of blackouts, after being struck by one at a very inopportune moment. I hate friggin blackouts, they're the work of the devil. They've gotta hurry up and develop microfusion reactors, so I don't have to worry about power again

If you're of two minds over this, there's a simple way to deal with it. Don't make the decision yourself. For this solution, you need a pen, a piece of paper and one D6. Firstly, write numbers 1 through 6 on a piece of paper. Then decide, what chance do you want to give helping yourself fully, put that many "Seek total help", what chance for just helping one aspect, then put no help as number 1. Or six, if you want. Then toss the dice and let it decide what you should do. Bam! any way the dice rolls, some part of your body is satisfied. And redo this every couple of weeks, with things like "Continue down this path", "Change completely", "Dress in pirates clothes and run down time square screaming at passers by, demanding their pieces of eight" and the like. If you can't decide, let an inaminate object decide for you

Blackouts aren't so bad. Gives me an excuse to use candles without being accused of being a wierdo wiccan whacko or some kind of hippy fruitcake. I really should stop using cans of hairspray to light them, though. I've gone through too many sets of curtains in my life.

There's been all sortsa crazy weather goin' round. Some say it's due to that there solar wind blastin' away at our little 'ole rock in the middle of space. Others believe it's some kind of voodoo magic. Yet others think it's a grand conspiracy of biblical proportions Meanwhile, I sit here in my Crazy Weather Machine, mixin' up another batch of crazy weather to unleash on the world. Let us see, ahh here's one. SUNSHINE!!! IN THE MIDDLE OF LONDON!!! BOW DOWN BEFORE ME, PUNY MORTALS!!!!$!#$!@$!@

RonCorp had received much flak from various interest groups for years. Save the Earth, Friends of the Animals, the Greenies, name your environmental activist, they wanted them shut down. Ever since the government had gone against the UN chemical weapons treaty, RonCorp had been cashing in. They had a two year contract which they planned to milk dry before some spineless wimp of a politician decided to cash in on the anti-chemical weapons call coming from the public. The heads of RonCorp knew it would happen. But a contract is a contract and their lawyers had ensured that RonCorp received a massive payout in that event. It was unofficially known as the "Spineless Wimp" clause. A mile from the site, the biker did one last check of his equipment. Bike was in working order, all modifications seemed operational. The small LCD panel showed everything in working order. His weapons, two machine pistols, he trusted. He'd spent all last night cleaning and oiling them. He'd made every round himself. He wanted nothing to go wrong. His harness, secured to his body. If something unexpected happened, he didn't want to lose that. His jacket. What kind of biker doesn't have a leather jacket? Still, one thing missing. He absently patted his own head, then it struck him. Of course, how foolish of him. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a pair of mirrored shades. If you're not going all out, what's the point? The facility was the smallest of three chemical processing plants around the country. They were all in remote areas, employees being flown in by chopper each morning. The amount they were making, it was more than worth it. The remoteness also helped cut down on protests. After all, what hippy activist would travel hundreds of miles to demonstrate, when they could sit at home, smoke illicit substances and watch children's programming? That was the line of thought that had lead RonCorp to construct the facilities in such remote locations. And so far, it'd worked quite well. All employees were paid well. They all deserved it, being the best in their fields. Even the lowest positions were manned by skilled staff. The security and cleaning forces in all three areas having been combined, cutting down on labour, but requiring more qualified staff. And with the salaries they were offering, there were no shortage of takers. His path was mapped out in his mind. All he had to do was get to the reactor core. What the hell a chemical plant was doing with a reactor core was beyond him, but it was nice and convenient for him. Of course, this core was in the deepest part of the facility, but there happened to be an elevator that went right down there. It couldn't get more obvious than that, but he reminded himself that he was a veteran at this and he would be up against unskilled security who, according to reports, spent most of their time mopping up anyway. He gunned the engine and took off in the direction of the plant. The gate security heard the biker approach. Hearing any engine this far out from civilisation was enough to alert them. No one came this late. A general alert was sounded. Standard procedure, plus it gave the staff something to break the monotony of keeping the place shiny. Guards took up positions in the towers at the gates and watched the oncoming biker through rifle scopes. Courier? Visitor? Employee getting in extra early for some unknown reason? Not likely. The biker slowed and came to a stop near the gates. There was a guard in the guardhouse, but the gates were still activated by a swipecard. And the biker just happened to have a swipecard. Seconds later, he was in, ignoring the casual queries from the security force. He made his way slowly around the facility to the side entrance. The guards were still puzzled by this. In the control room, a Senior Supervisor Smith had just swiped in. This name was quickly referenced, bringing up an incomplete file. Name, security number, nothing more. No number, no address. One of the guards gave a call to RonCorp HQ. Once around the side, he was out of site of the guards. Too easy so far. He rode up the disabled ramp, swiping to open the doors. He was fully aware of the cameras watching him. As the phone rang, the guard watched puzzled as the biker rode into the building. This was unheard of. He sent the order to secure the biker for routine interrogation. Now was probably a good time. The biker stopped by a computer terminal and used the login information he'd fabricated for John Smith. Root access. He loved it. Why they connected everything to the network, he'd never know, but it was their loss, really. He unlocked the rector floor, shut down the surveillance system and, just because he could, locked all the restrooms, stairwells and turned on all the sprinklers. Then he summoned the elevator. With surveillance off, the guards were in a panic. Who was this biker, what did he want? Frantic calls to HQ confirmed that this smith did not really exist and the biker was probably up to no good. When the reactor level unlocked, they guessed what he wanted. Guards armed themselves and headed for the reactor, hindered momentarily by the locked stairwells. Fortunately, someone had the foresight to make the doors out of wood that would burn away in a fire and could be shot through with ease. The idling of the engine went well with the elevator music, he was shocked to find out. He cocked his weapons, knowing there would be guards galore when he came out. Between the elevator and the reactor, there was a long corridor, wide enough for him to burn through, but with plenty of cover for snipers and the like. Still, he was good at this. He'd done it hundreds of times before. But just in case... The guards took up positions at the elevator, waiting patiently for it to open. Three floors away... they gazed nervously at one another. Few had had experience at this, most had their training and that's it. Two floors... They all knew how to handle firearms and they were all good shots, anyone with less than 90% accuracy failing the course. But this was completely different. One floor... The sound of dozens of rifles cocking in unison would've brought a tear to the eye of a drill sergeant. One floor... the elevator had stopped. They all heard the roar of the motorcycle one floor above them. They cursed as one and ran for the stairs. The reactor itself was three floors high. His bullets were explosive. But there was a thick concrete barrier between him and the reactor he wasn't sure he'd breech. So he did the next best thing. With both weapons, he fired a hail of shots at the floor in front of him, then fell through the resulting hole. Half the guards were on the stairs or spilling out onto the level above them. The other half were at the other end, waiting for the elevator. Those ones saw the biker fall. The few that could've taken a shot were too awed at the site and didn't come to their senses in time. He flew at the reactor, counting silently in his head. These last few seconds.. he had to get it just right. The LCD screen confirmed that the bike had armed itself. Now, even if he goosed it, he should achieve his mission objective. But he was no suicide bomber. He planned to get out. He heard a bullet whizz past. The guards had finally come to their senses. Idiots. They deserved their fate. Three... two... one.... he hit the button on the middle of his harness. All he felt was a slight tingling sensation. Neutron absorbent control rods prevented the reactor going into meltdown, but enough explosives had been packed into the bike to rupture the reactor, spilling radiation everywhere, and the shockwaves caused secondary explosions from the vats of chemicals some fool had left uncovered. The plant didn't go up in a spectacular fireball, but it was ruined. Chemicals had been forced out from various breaches in the structure, blown high into the air. Others seeped into the ground, eventually mixing with the underground water supply of a nearby city. Thousands became sick from their own tapwater. One such person was a small child, who's significance in the grand scheme of things was only known by one person in the hospital she'd been taken to after falling ill. Now she was in a critical condition, being monitored constantly. As she slept, a new doctor read over her vitals, examined her charts and smiled beneath his mask. His tag read John Smith and he'd really annoyed the security by refusing to remove his shades. If she survived, she'd be in no shape to be a problem for his employer. He activated his harness again, phasing out of that particular time period. Sometimes, being an assassin had it's downs, but he had his own life to protect. That was all it took to wash the guilt from his mind.