Aardvark

Now that I bear the quill, the writing impliment that is mightier than even the mightiest sword, I shall become unstoppable!! From this day forth, you shall all bow down to me as your lord and master, or you shall get ink in the eye

My Brother Bob Punched Your Brother Bob In The Nose

Orlan.... Oh Orlan.... BOOGABOOGABOOGA!!!

Most of the above can be achieved via various psychotropic chemicals and exotic 'erbs I want the supernatural ability to drive a car like a mental without having accelerated detrimental effects on the car itself Or the ability to wake up early and not feel like going back to sleep Both would be helpful

I still haven't seen two towers. After seeing the first one, I was dissappointed with Mr Jackson. I never thought he could make a movie worse than Bad Taste. I was wrong Only movie I've seen recently were two I acquired through entirely legal means, if anyone of an authoritive stature asks, Equilibrium and Donnie Darko. I wholeheartedly recommend them both, but I insist you hunt down and read a copy of 1984 before you watch Equilibrium, if you haven't already done so. I would go into detail about both, but I couldn't be buggered. Evangelion... Live... action... sweet unholy mother of.... Personally, I don't care for it one way or another. It's probably already got my 10 bucks the same way as Starwars 1 and 2 automatically got my 10 bucks. even though I knew both would suck balls. But I have too many friends who are fans of the series. I will have to listen to them bitch for months on end if that movie actually does get released

Myself

As I looked over the precipice, my stomach turned. I knew the cliff was high, I'd just never seen it from this close before. Or this perspective. I was having second thoughts. I looked back over the events that had lead me to here. The hard uphill battles, with spiteful adversaries at every turn, their only goal to see me fail. The constant pressure from my family, my peers and my colleagues. It had all seemed too much for me. And now I was here, facing what probably would be the end. I looked down, once more. The ground seemed to rush up to meet me. They don't call them dizzying heights for nothing, I mused to myself. I retreated from the edge and regained myself. I'd never really thought it would be this hard. As easy as falling off a cliff.... bah. But how could I turn back. What was there for me if I walked away? The humiliating shame of defeat, that's all. I had to go through with it. In my mind, there was no other option. I turned back and looked out over the valley. It seemed to go on forever, a blanket of lush green. I thought about every one of those trees, upturned branches, ready to impale me. Or I could slip through the trees, land on the ground and become the meal of some wild scavenger. It really didn't make a difference, either way. I was going down, whether I liked it or not. I picked up a stone. I'd seen this done in movies, supposedly a good way to judge the height of any vertical drop. I could do physics calculations in my head and could keep fairly good time, so I could probably determine the height to the metre, if I'd felt so inclined. But that wouldn't matter to me, plummeting downwards. The only thing that would matter were how many seconds until I hit bottom. I tossed the stone over and counted. My heartbeat thumping in my head as I counted the seconds until the clatter of stone on jagged rocks hundreds of feet below. Seven.... thumpthumpthumpthump.... eight.... thumpthum-Clatter. Eight and a bit. Eight and a bit seconds before I found out just how jagged those rocks really are. I turned back and took a few deep breaths. This was it. My last chance to bug out, to go home and return to my life. Could I live with myself? No, I had to do it. With grim determination, I spun, ran and leaped out into thin air. And fell.... One.... arms outstretched, holding this pose, I wouldn't go down a flailing coward. My last few moments in this world wouldn't be a frightened animal. No, I'd go proud and strong. Two.... endless aeons between seconds as the air rushed past me. My cheeks stung as they were pulled back. No real point in worrying about comfort here, now. Three... god, what was I doing? Here I was, in midair, partway down a cliff face. If I'd asked myself 10 years ago what I'd be doing in exactly 10 years time, I wouldn't have said this. Things seemed so different back then... Four.... I tried to remain calm. My body, unused to freefall, was belting the panic button with a cricket bat. I fought against it. Fought back the urge to curl up into a little ball. Swallowed the bile taste rising in the back of my throat. Five... past halfway. It wouldn't be long. Only a few seconds. But it seemed like a lifetime. Any moment, it would be a lifetime. Flashing before my eyes. Six... enough. No further. I reached back and pulled the ripcord. The chute unfurled from my pack and got caught in an updraught. My body was jerked upwards. Oooh, I'd feel some of that next winter. I grabbed the two guiding rings, their correct names told to me hours before but long since forgotten. Five seconds of freefall can do that to a person. I saw the collection point, where the landrovers and the rest of my party had gathered. I glided over to them. They were at the end of a long clearing, just perfect for my landing. They say the landing is the hardest part of any fall. They seem to be right far too often for my liking. Even trying to run as I hit the ground, it still hurt like hell. I didn't see the attendants run over to where I'd managed to tangle myself in the chute, but I knew they would come. I hoped one of them had a medkit stocked with morphine. On the flight back home, I was the target of much ridicule. My filthy cowardice was continually referred to and many references about good old chinese sweatshop kid know-how keeping me alive. Sure, I went home mostly redfaced. But I'd done it. I'd beat acrophobia.

Stephen? You want to know about Stephen? Well, let me tell you all about Stephen. Oh, you'll love this. Great guy, really great guy. Smart, funny, looks that made men jealous and turned women into puddles of warm goo. Totally unpredictable, a touch insane, but most people loved him. And the few that didn't just don't count. They're all boring old bastards or so twisted by jealousy that they can't get past the fact that he's simply better than them. I grew up with him. We went to the same schools all the way up to Uni. Then he got accepted in Welton Academy, while I went off to Hackmore Tech. As a child, he was a destructive little menace. Always playing tricks and pranks on people. Most of his early school days were spent in detention for a prank gone too far. But they never hurt anyone, unless the victim asked for it. And for them to ask for it, they'd have to do something truely evil. Like kick Stephen's dog or something. That kind of evil. But he didn't discriminate. Everyone was fair game for him. Students, teachers, parents alike. Which explained the detentions. In Highschool, the pranks continued, toned down though. He put his head down and began to study. But never for more than ten minutes at a time. Never achieving outstanding results, but avoiding lingering down the bottom of the scale, with all the dumbarses. His best subject was english. Being the creative, argumentative person he is, he joined the debating team. Didn't last long. Formal stucture was too much for him. But it was creative writing where he really shined. Turning that overactive imagination onto paper, he was able to create stories, tales, poems and other pieces of literature that could capture the imagination, belt it 'round a bit, then stuff it back in your head without you even noticing. Oh, he was good. Entered several comps, always came near the top, even taking out the regional's back in... I think it was grade ten, I can't remember too well. Uni we went seperate ways, as I've said, but we kept in touch, often teaming up on friday nights for an alcohol-soaked adventure across the cityDuring his uni years, he had no less than fourteen different jobs. He went from delivery driver to window washer to night security. Longest stretch was 2 months and that was the delivery job. And only because he was getting free pizzas. He couldn't stand working, but kept on trying, because he, as everyone does, needed the money. His last job, the one he sort of still has, was as a junior article writer for a magazine. He finally decided to cash in on his writing talents. At first he was only meant to write small filler pieces, but these became the most popular articles in the magazine. Soon he was raking in the dough, hand over fist, as the magazine's publishers had him writing for a whole range of magazines. And he was never short of inspiration. He could pump them out at a rate of knots. End of uni, he had his lit degree and had no idea what to do. The publishing company offered him a position as an editor by this point. Which he admitted was good, because he was running out of ideas. He's still there, ten years on. He was the one who most suprised me. I'd always pictured him doing something big, becomming something famous. After knowing him my whole life, I'd never asked him once what he'd wanted to do with his life. And he seemed to have done nothing. Now, you know me, I'm not one for wasting opportunities, so I asked him, the other day, I go up to him and say "Oi, mate. What do you wanna do with your life?" "Isn't that a little too personal, man?" "Fair enough..." "Nah, 'tis ok. Here, read this." He gave me a disk. Not your usual average media for explaining something to people and not the sort of thing I'd be carrying around. When I did find out what was on it, I was even more suprised. Not only did he have a disk on him, it had the answer to the question I'd just asked. He must get that a lot. I whacked it in my computer, opened it and found a document entitled "I strive for medocrity." The contents confirmed the title. All he wanted from life was a wife, two kids, a house in the middle of suburbia and a comfortable nest egg to retire on. He was the most unique individual I'd ever met and all he wanted was that.

I'd stood here before, the roof of one of the many skyscrapers that made up my city. This was the roof of my building, where I worked. Where I had worked for almost ten years. Almost a quarter of my life I had worked in the one place. Doing the same thing. Day in, day out. 10 years either works you into a groove or causes your mind to snap. I was leaning to the latter. 10 years as a corporate desk slave, with a mundane personal life. Wife, two kids, house in a nice part of town. Same routine every week. The monotony was getting to me. My breaks for lunch usually take me to the roof of the building, where I stand and watch out over the city. When I'd discovered a fast way to the roof, two years earlier, I'd taken up smoking, just as an excuse to get up here more often. Two years and not a day went by when I looked out over the edge and something inside me said to me, in a calm, soothing voice, "Jump." I lead an active, healthy lifestyle. I ate right, I exercised often, being a member of a gym for about 15 years now. I looked good for my age, no severe health issues. I was the envy of my male peers. Strong, handsome, in perfect shape. My only real vice was the smoking. And the only time was at work. Just to get out of work. But I wasn't enough for me. I looked back on my life and saw the last ten years stretch back to infinity. I looked ahead and saw another ten, then an old age of wrinkled frailty. I looked once more out over the city from the rooftop and heard the voice, once more, telling me to jump. I tried to block it out, I tried to drown it out, I tried to ignore it. It didn't work. It was still there. Calm, soothing and to me, right then, the picture of sense. I was trapped in my world of stability, this was the only way out. My inner voice of reason telling me to take my own life. But what about my friends? My family? I thought of them and could only see pictures and profiles. Sarah Hart, age thirty five, married, two children, height, weight. John and Michelle Hart, ages nine and six respectively, Barry Jones, age forty three, good friend and neighbour. I couldn't think of the people themselves. Just who they were, what they looked like. I no longer saw them as people. They were merely aspects of my stable life. I hadn't told anyone, not even my wife, about my state of mind. I'd made the mistake of marrying a psychologist who read into the work of Freud a little too much. She would recommend a shrink who would recommend pills and that's the last thing I wanted. I'd successfully kept my thoughts to myself. But the longer I bottled them up, the louder they got. "Jump, escape, end it all." It was all making too much sense. I looked out over the city, again. The sun was high in the sky, there were few clouds. The air was clear, strong sea breezes having blown all the pollution out west. A cluster of skyscrapers surrounded by vast plains of houses and small buildings. Each skyscraper separated by lines of vehicles. I looked down. Thirty stories straight down. The footpaths were almost empty today, the traffic light. Little chance of hitting anyone. I walked back to the stairwell down into the building. I was due back at my desk. As I gripped the doorhandle, I turned and took one last look at the city. Then I let go, turned and ran to the edge. I lept... and fell... ... and sat bolt upright in bed, eyes wide open, rivulets of cold sweat pouring down my face. I looked at my watch. Three fifty five AM. Six hours before the interview. I turned to where my girlfriend was sleeping. She hadn't even stirred. My thoughts went back to the dream I'd had. The dream I'd been having every night since I applied for this position. I'd decided to settle on a 40 hour a week salary job for a company in the city. I checked my watch again. The date confirmed that I was still twenty eight and four hours away from a mundane desk job. I couldn't do it. I couldn't consign myself to that life. No, it wasn't for me, I decided. I picked up the phone and dialled. He probably wouldn't be awake, but I couldn't wait any longer. I waited thirty seconds. Then the phone was answered. "Whoever you are, you'd better have a damn good reason for interrupting that dream" "Michael, it's Joseph." "You? Damnit man, I had two chicks in that-" "Forget about your dream. Remember the offer you made me?" "Yeah, yeah, why couldn't you wait 'til tomorrow to talk to me about it?" "I had second thoughts right now." "Oh. Well. Ok. So you want in?" "Yeah." "You can help us secure the loan?" "I've got mates at several banks who owe me favours." "Well, it sounds like we're in business. Congratulations, partner." "Thanks, partner." He hung up first. I lay my head back down and breathed easy. I closed my eyes and dreamed.... I'd stood here before, the roof of one of the many skyscrapers that made up my city. But when I looked out, I didn't see the future, the past or hopelessness. I saw my city. The city I was playing a major part in expanding. I ran to the edge. I leaped. I soared.

The descent was rough, the lander plunging through thick, broiling clouds of various chemicals. The pilot of the lander, experienced in simulations, but unnerved at being literally plunged into the thick of it, was trying his utmost to keep the small craft under control. Billions of dollars worth of technology predicted that this would be the calmest time and place to attempt to penetrate the gas giant's atmosphere, but he wondered whether or not the craft would hold it together. His crew, two scientists, were strapped in, holding on for dear life as another updraught rocked the ship. Scanners were totally blind here, the pilot was going on instinct and the reports from the few unmanned probes they'd shot into the atmosphere over the years. He pushed the craft downward, narrowly avoiding a methane pocket. Suddenly, the shaking stopped. The vessel was calm. The first deep probes of Jupiter uncovered something fascinating to a mankind just taking their first strides off their home planet. For years, the giant had been thought of as nothing more than a gravity well in space, it's only use being it's surrounding moons. Then a malfunctioning mineral probe, caught in the gravity of the planet, was sucked into one of the many maelstroms in the planet's atmosphere. Although the company was disappointed with the loss of such expensive equipment, it's last few transmissions provided something astounding. At first the report was dismissed as a malfunction and sat in the archives for months, until the inquest into the incident finally got underway. The investigative team, not as chemically savvy as the science team who initially read the report, took the transmission to an independent research firm for analysis. The result of this? A 10 year mineral expedition on a planet made of gas. The probe had crashed into solid rock. The calm had been reported by one of the hardier probes. Kilometres of thick outer atmosphere covering an ocean of hydrogen. The currents of this ocean were strong, due to the immense size of the planet, but nothing compared to what they'd just gone through. The pilot, who had been guiding the craft in freefall from orbit, flicked on the specially designed turbines and steered the craft toward the recorded location of the island. The craft was built on a revolutionary design, using the hardest substances known to man, the strongest construction techniques and overseen by the greatest minds of the time. It was, in essence, a space sub. A craft designed to go from total vacuum to liquid. Deep into liquid. Deep into a liquid that required immense pressure to remain a liquid. They'd tested it in all sorts of situations, but nothing could actually compare to a dip in a sea of hydrogen. All sorts of theories abounded when news of this discovery became public. Of course, there were the naysayers, the people who just could not accept the possibility of actual rock on that planet. They demanded the entire program be aborted, the waste of resources being an insult to them and science as a whole. Those who believed the reports tossed around ideas such as concentrations of silica and carbon during the planet's formation congealing at various points on the planet's surface. Others suspected beneath Jupiter's atmosphere a structure similar to Earth, with continents and oceans. A few extremists even suggested the possibility of life. But the most widely accepted explanation at this point was the one from the head scientist of the program. His theory was a simple one. It'd been known that Jupiter's size traps incoming meteors and comets. His theory was that the debris from these bodies had come to a single point on the planet's surface, because of the way the various storms and atmospheric currents seemed to move. The island itself was in the middle of a maelstrom smaller than the famed Red Spot, but still easily bigger than Earth. Computer simulations had confirmed this a strong possibility. In the sea of hydrogen, the scanners could work once more. They'd been designed for this. Although they only had a short range, using the magnetic field of the planet itself, they could guide the craft to the suspected location. The pilot was only really there because computers couldn't be trusted to make it through the hellish layer above. He turned to see what the two scientists were doing. They'd both unstrapped themselves and were preparing their equipment. The pilot thought them insane for volunteering for this one, but he did admire their courage. The plan, at least as far as he knew, was to surface near the island, a becalmed area within the eye of the maelstrom, where the two scientists would disembark in heavy environment suits to survey this island. Already, plans for a research station were being created, pending positive results from this expedition. His only question was why didn't he just drop through the eye. This question was dismissed quickly. A blip ahead. Something solid. The island!. He couldn't see it, no viewports, but the scanners showed it was ahead. And it was large. It was huge. Initial indications were hinting at a landmass the size of the moon. The two scientists were ecstatic as they poured over the information coming in. They were already in their suits and ready to go, chattering excitedly to eachother over their radios. The pilot stayed silent. He had an uneasy feeling about this. And he'd been left with quite a responsibility. The craft surfaced almost next to the island. Although much calmer, the storm was still quite violent here. The two scientists would have some trouble, but they were already prepared for it. They'd both gone over their final checklists and had entered the airlock, which was pressurising. The pilot sat back and watched the screens. Outside looked like hell. Deep orange air, thick as soup. He couldn't see through it. Radar, sonar, infrared, UV and X-ray probes made up for this lack of vision. On his screen, he had the lay of the land, stretching a couple hundred meters from him. It was surprisingly smooth, but he'd been told to expect that. Erosive forces or something. So the scientists wouldn't have as hard a time as he thought. But the final instructions to given to him really were quite worrying. Due to atmospheric conditions, he wouldn't have any clear communication with either of the scientists, once they moved beyond range. This didn't worry him, as long as they were back on schedule, he was fine. All he had to do was monitor their vital signs. If something happened, he had to find out what, send out a distress rocket and go out and help. That's the last thing he wanted. He still regretted even signing on for this mission. Hours passed, the scientists lived. Then something unexpected happened. He wasn't sure if he'd seen the screen right, but it looked like another vessel was descending toward the island fast. Too fast. He zoomed in on it Sleek design, no sign of life or any air-filled compartments, radioactive... he gulped. There was no way for those scientists to know a nuclear device was about to hit them. He watched helplessly as the missile hit the island. Then his scope went blank. All vital signs from the scientists were lost. He had to get off this rock and fast. Whoever fired that knew where they were, where to fire and probably knew he would survive in the ship designed to withstand pressure greater than the centre of the sun. Still, he had no time to worry about that. He had his skin to save. Enabling the gravitic repulsors, he felt the craft lurch upward. Then it shot up. He was pinned down in his seat as the full force of the planet's gravity expelled him out of the hellish atmosphere.... ... Into hell. He was in the middle of a space battle. Familiar corporate fighters were engaging a group of unknown hostiles. No markings on the hostile ships, but familiar designs. He shook his head. Probably a rival corporation. Ever since the governments lost control, it had been law of the gun. He disabled the repulsor and was about to switch on the space drives when he saw something that almost made him puke. The vital signs from the two scientists. Weak, from this distance, but still alive. He had to go back.

Unfortunately, the education, public health, broadband internet, road and water systems are in poor shape, with all money that should be channeled into fixing them being instead used to pay for fridgemagnets which inform the populace of what to do in the event of Terrorists unleashing msblast on the power grid, plunging the city into darkness.

I had a 5 day friday a while ago But it started when I puked at work and ended after the flu decided to bugger off down the pub

An investigation is underway, but all they'll find is that the power grid really failed years ago, with the backup system finally giving up the ghost. But the final report won't say anything about an illegal immigrant, at gunpoint, peddling himself to death

Here's an idea for a birthday present. For everyone. I don't care when your damn birthday is, this is your present whether you like it or not. Well, it would be if I had the power, the time and the will to actually do it The birthday room. Where it's always someone's birthday, there's always cake, there's lotsa soft drink for the kiddies, hard drink for the bigger kiddies, an infinite supply of party hats, poppers, streamers, candles, sparklers and assorted treats. A place where all of these existing birthday threads can be dumped and all future ones started in the room, so every time a necrophobic bastard such as myself wanders into the cabaret room, I don't suddenly get a chill down my spine and mutter a few deathwards under my breath as I remember how old I am and how long the old gypsy said I had left Happy birthday, by the way

I could feel the seat altering beneath my flesh. Moulding itself to my body. I could feel the millions poured into the design of the seat. If they could make a couch out of this stuff, they'd recoup their losses overnight. But, to my knowledge, they hadn't. So here I was, enjoying one of the most comfortable seats I'd ever had the fortune to sit upon, in the unlikeliest situation that I could imagine on the spot. Any application form that has a space for occupation took me time to fill. As part of my occupation, I always had to tell people my occupation was whatever occupation would least likely arouse suspicion from them. In the past, I'd put a whole series of cover jobs, including accountant, customer service officer, patent clerk, advertising executive, delivery boy, ranger, cleaner and, just once as a joke, professional assassin. This received a hearty chuckle from the attractive receptionist, who then handed me the white-out and asked me to answer correctly. My reply of "Ok, I'll lie, just for you" confused the simple girl, but my charming manner had her hooked all the same. I was strapped into the seat. Millions spent in seat technology. I really did wonder what fraction of that went into designing the restraint. It felt secure, if a little tight, but I'd grown up to never trust anything unless I'd personally checked it. In this situation, as with all situations involving theft of government property, I didn't really have the time to perform a hundred and one point safety check. So I had to trust whichever third world child they'd paid to craft the restraint. Yes, I was a hitman, an assassin, a removalist, a cleaner, a pacifier, any number of other names given to the role, just to soften the blow to those many individuals who still couldn't admit to the world at large that men like me were a necessity. Having never met a professional hitwoman, despite hearing quite a bit about them, I refused to acknowledge the existence of female assassins. Infact, the stories I'd heard reinforced my opinion that women could only be second-rate murderers and never qualify for the title "Assassin", which I wore with pride. Women. They can have their stories. Sure, there were stories about me. But my name wasn't on any of them. I didn't appear in the cast list at the end. And I'm not a rabid fanatical religious zealot. Honest. I gripped the controls of the vehicle tightly, easing it in the direction of my target. I knew what I was doing, but I never felt easy just before carrying out a contract. I think it was the last few remnants of my conscience trying to regain control of me. The unease being caused by my mind trying to suppress that nagging little voice. So I had to concentrate on everything. Every second, every step of my plan. Ensure everything went without a hitch. I was aware, all too aware, that the weakest part of any plan of mine was myself. Blame for human error can be placed quickly when you work alone. Most assassins were individuals. Working alone, using their methods and signature techniques that could be spotted afterwards by someone with keen senses. There were the occasional assassins who worked in pairs or groups. But these were few and far between. Usually close siblings who compliment eachother, making sure the other one doesn't screw up. I liked to think of myself apart from most assassins. Sure, I work alone. Sure, I use my own methods, but the only technique I employed was get the job done any way possible, as quickly as possible, with as little as possible linking me to the client. I was still alive, unlike too many assassins before me, so I believed my methods were working. The target wasn't far off. She was expecting an assassination attempt, as she had beefed up security around her for this public address. She had bodyguards around her, armed with automatic weapons and the finest training her country could offer. Through the crowd that had gathered before her were plain-clothed guards, on the lookout for suspicious persons carrying high explosives. In the buildings surrounding the city park were snipers, highly trained operatives able to acquire, anticipate and eliminate a target within half a heartbeat. I'd thought of merely posing as one of them for this contract, but that was too easy for me. And escape would be rather difficult if anyone was watching the watchers. Early in my career, I'd discovered that the only things the media and the public take real note of were high profile killings and acts of terror. Sure, law enforcement officials might spend a few weeks working to catch the killer of a small-time businessman who crossed someone really powerful, but they lose interest quickly. That time goes quicker when you're not in the country. But high profile killings cause public outcry. Larger agencies work longer hours, making the lives of people like me harder. Acts of terror, on the otherhand, are written off as the work of extremists. The government agencies then merely find a third world country to blame and either declare sanctions or declare war. Sure, it could be considered barbaric of me to combine high profile with terror, but it got the job done and it kept the heat off me. The console ahead of me registered distance to the target I'd set. It also registered two pursuers, but both were minutes away. They wouldn't catch me, not at this speed. I armed the FighterPlane's missiles and targeted the base of the building my target was opening in the name of some charity. I had no idea who she was. Not my country, I didn't care. I didn't care who wanted her dead or why. All she meant was a couple million in my various bank accounts world wide. I fired the missiles and watched them crash into the podium, engulfing the woman in an intense fireball. At the last moment, I pulled up, banked north and afterburned away. Another contract completed successfully. The mail arrived that morning. In it, an issue of a newspaper from a country I'd visited on business a few weeks earlier. Today I was a corporate executive on extended vacation in Fiji. As the native girl I'd picked up the night before bustled around the kitchen of my hotel suite, making my breakfast, I went through the first few pages. Apparently, they'd linked the brutal attack on Senator Mary Spencer to some small island nation near the middle east. The President had ordered a retaliatory strike against this nation as a warning to all others. I chuckled and turned the page. This was what I really wanted to see. Mr Adam Brekker, high profile businessman and known political enemy of Senator Spencer, died of a heart attack in his family home. What the newspaper didn't say is that his chemical induced heart attack could've been averted for a mere two hundred grand. Yes, I'm brutal, but I'm alive, rich and don't tolerate people cheating me on principle. The only principle I've ever allowed myself

4000 year lease on the site of the guiness brewery. Man, they're confident Happy birthday

Invent your own species of bloodthirsty aerial savages who breathe fire and drop large explosive chunks of lava from the sky onto unsuspecting peons Call them Gawtors or Snalestors or Kroaleos or something stupid and made up Then claim them as your own and sue everytime something even remotely similar comes out "Ice Elementals using Magic Carpets? HELLO!!! I SMELL LAWSUIT!!!!"

A sedan-based transport vehicle

It recently occurred to me that there's no real way to measure how great a piece of literature is. Everything's subjective, everyone's a critic and every writer has a different set of ghouls in their respective closets. So it got me thinking. There's gotta be a scientific way you can break down any story to find a common greatness quotient, somewhere within the words and paragraphs. Then I realised I was dead wrong, so came up with this one, which I will be using for all future stories. Action sequences involving 3 opposing parties: 5 points Protagonist dies at start of story: 5 points Protagonist lives to see another day: 5 points Protagonist dies unexpectedly just before the end: 10 points Told in first person: 10 points Told in third person: 10 points Told in second person: -10 points* Brutal and direct: 15 points Leaves reader with warm fuzzy feeling: 15 points Leaves reader with a cold, sickly feeling: 15 points Leaves reader with urge to grab the nearest blunt object and beat self over the head: -15 Leaves reader with urge for hot, fresh donuts from Krispy Kreme: 100 points *hides large sack with dollar sign* Uses alliteration: 5 points Uses assonance: 5 points Uses onomatopoeia: 5 points Explains what the above words mean and why anyone looking for them should have their eyes plucked out: 50 points Antagonist is bald: 10 points Antagonist has a monocle: 10 points Antagonist speaks with a thick slavic accent: 10 points Antagonist speaks with a thick texan accent: 20 points Antagonist is plotting for world domination: 0 points** Antagonist is a puke-inducingly cute small child: -20 points Antagonist is a puke-inducingly cute small child with homicidal tendencies: 50 points Antagonist dies at the end: 10 points Antagonist escapes through a hidden trapdoor: 10 points Antagonist wins: 20 points Antagonist wins - Fatality: 50 points, plus a bonus 5 for every goresplatter Antagonist dies and is a puke-inducingly cute small child without homicidal tendencies: 100 points Story includes three sided battle that doesn't involve the law somewhere: 20 points Story includes consistent witty parley between all parties: 20 points Story includes witty one-liners before key character dies horribly: 30 points Story includes one-liners that make you double over and cringe like you've eaten bad meat and have got stomach cramps to match: 50 points *** There are more, but I wanna get to the bonus points Someone using the word French is corrected by someone who uses the word Freedom: 5 points Gunbattle that starts off with parties pulling out bigger and bigger guns: 5 points Protagonist drives a Charger, Viper, Monaro or F250: 5 points Antagonist drives a Moke, Bug, Mightyboy or riced-up Civic: 5 points Fight scene involves a helicopter coming in for no reason: 5 points Puke-inducingly cute small child is belted by parent whenever it opens it's mouth: 20 points The words Paradigm or Antidisestablishmentarianism are used: 5 points each Both the above words are used in the same sentence: Further 50 points A ninja, white or black, stands around for most of the story, then lands the crucial kick in the final fight scene: 10 points: Ninja is then killed by a Pirate who swings in out of nowhere: 20 points Ninja isn't killed by a pirate who swings in out of nowhere: Just alt-f4 your story out of existence now, it fails Wyvern makes a cameo: 20 points Wyvern makes a cameo wearing a monocle, no hair, plans for world domination and speaking in a thick slavic accent: 0 points^ All characters enjoy hot fresh donuts from Krispy Kreme: 100 points * Don't tell me what I'm doing, damn you ** You can't be an antagonist these days without schemes for world domination *** This is the true oneliner. You don't get anymore onelined than this ^If you can't figure that one out, I'm not helping you There. That's the A.R.S.E for now. I may or may not add to it later, maybe to take into account stories that might not include violence, bloodshed, hatred, world domination and one-liners. Don't hold your breath, though

Just give him a good strong name. If he's going to die anyway, let him stand tall as he strides to his eventual demise. Give him the kind of name suited to someone who'll give Death a kick in the teeth just as the scythe passes through him No, I do not have any suggestions

Three bits of advice which have kept me alive to this day One: Don't take the advice of someone who claims to be alive Two and Three: Don't forget rule number one Cya, dude

Conversely, my dear Ms Crusader, your residence in some dank, dark, smelly, backwards hole in the middle of a pit just left of a depression rather than in my warm, sunny, beautiful big brown land of the future is no fault of mine

Fools! Stuck in the past like some backwards race of anti-time dwellers! From here in the future, where it is Saturday, I mock and scoff at you in your vain attempts to make the weekend come faster. For me, the weekend is already here!! I am the future!!!

As I strode through the parking lot, I was filled with a sense of excitement. The hairs on the back of my neck were standing on end, despite the warm draughts blowing through the area. As I strode onwards, my coat, heavy with concealed items, flowed around me. My eyes, ever hidden by almost black sunglasses, were darting around from one point to another, checking every possible location, every spot, everywhere in the parking lot, for signs of anyone other than me. I couldn't see him or hear him, but I could almost taste him. I knew he was around, but I didn't know where until the first gunshot rang out Some would call it a warning shot, a gunshot aimed to miss. But most warning shots are never meant to pass within half an inch of someone's ear. The shot that signified the start of a duel. No sooner had the bullet passed me, I'd about faced and drawn the first two pistols my hands could find and emptied both magazines into the most likely places the shot could've originated from. I froze on the spot as the last sounds of gunfire echoed off into silence, then remained still for several moments longer. He'd moved, I was sure of it, but to where... I cat rolled off to the side and behind a panelvan as my previous position was engulfed in automatic weapons fire. The coward. Most considered machine guns to be dishonourable. I was one of them. As I darted between the van and a truck parked several meters away, more gunfire came my way. Evidently, he was not. Behind the truck, I reloaded my pistols, and holstered them. On my belt, I had four pistols. Two Brownings, two Glocks. In my haste, I'd grabbed one of each. I reached deeper into my coat and felt the grip of my babies. An Anaconda and a Python. Revolvers. I would save these for later. My hands moved to lower pockets and retrieved the two .357 Desert Eagles within. What could I say? I love Hollywood. I heard footsteps. I dropped to my stomach and fired under the truck just ahead of a disappearing foot. Four powerful shots ripping into one of the concrete supports of the structure. I rolled out from behind the truck and strode towards the pillar. Was he still there or was he...? I fired at the car just beyond the pillar, then dove aside as a large man in a brown trenchcoat dove out the other side, unloading his MP-10 at me. I let off the last few shots from my Eagles in his general direction, then listened. I waited. And my patience was rewarded with the faint sound of a magazine being quietly removed from a weapon. White Holden Ute, behind the back tyre. I deposited the Eagles, unloaded, in my coat, drew the two Glocks, then bolted past the Ute, firing blindly. He dropped his MP-10 and dove over the bonnet of the Ute, barely avoiding my hail of bronze. As the two magazines fell from my pistols, he revealed himself, armed with a Winchester .308. I'd always wanted one of them. As I strafed to avoid his first shot it occurred to me that I may acquire one today. I'd dropped the glocks as soon as he'd popped his head up. Before they'd even hit the ground, the two Brownings were out, returning fire. He darted between cars, stopping occasionally to let off a shot. Three times he fired, three times he missed, despite me remaining in the same spot. I was dealing with an amateur. This would be over sooner than I thought. I reloaded the brownings, dropping to one knee when he got wise and tried aiming. Then I charged, guns blazing. Behind an old Falcon, he let off a final shot, before abandoning the rifle in favour of two antique Mausers. At least he had taste. I dove aside as he fired the two pistols. I felt, rather than heard, one of the slugs tear through my coat. My three thousand dollar coat. Oh, would he pay for that. My left hand gripped the Python. My much stronger right hand drew the Anaconda. Some questioned my choice in weapons. I always let my survival speak for itself. When he saw the .44, his eyes widened. He tossed the Mausers aside and drew a pair of P228s as he bolted from the Falcon. The huge slug from the Anaconda tore through the old steel panels of the vehicle, leaving a hole where his head was moments ago. The next shot was from the Python, at his feet. He skipped over the small explosion of concrete from the floor, fell into a catroll, then dove behind a Celica, letting off two shots in midair. I walked towards the sports car, firing shot after shot into it, until he dove over it towards me, firing his Sigs. The only two shots he got off missed. In such close quarters, it was simple to bring my Anaconda up, knocking one of his weapons aside. My boot disarmed him of his other. I would've finished it there, but he surprised me with a quick slash from a hidden blade. It caught me in the gut, slicing buttons off my black silk shirt. As he recovered, I spun my two revolvers around, gripping each by the barrel. This was my preferred method of ending a duel. The steel studs on the butt of each weapon, stained with red, were a testament to that. I brought the Python up into his ribs, then swung the Anaconda at his temple. This should've finished it, but he countered by slamming the hilt of his blade into my hand, causing me to lose grip on my most prized weapon. I retaliated with a kick to the midriff and swung the Python at his throat. This missed, mostly due to him still reeling from the kick, and he took advantage of this. One more weapon down and I had a bleeding wrist to boot. I was unarmed and he was already reaching for a firearm. But I was far from finished. A simple block kept his knife from my shoulder, followed by a short punch. He stepped back and doubled over. Perfect. I flung my arms forward, quickly flicking my wrists. Two small duelling pistols, each with only one round, flew out of my sleeves. His mouth opened in silent protest as I caught each weapon and unloaded the two rounds into his heart. My final act was to retrieve all my adversary's weapons, lay them by his side and burn the lot of them. This served no practical purpose, except to satisfy some time-honoured code. But to this day, every time I think back to that fight, something always strikes me as wrong. I could never put my finger on it. Then one day, I realised what it was. I never burnt the Winchester

Go find Carlos Mencia's stand-up bit on friendship. He said it better than I could, so I'm stealing his