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The Pen is Mightier than the Sword

Finnius

Quill-Bearer
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Everything posted by Finnius

  1. Name: Ed the Fish Art: Photography - Ed will take pictures of anything and everything, and often does at the most inopportune time. He calls it 'Unexpected Art.' Ed earned his unfortunate monicker at a young age due to his incredibly puffy cheeks and tendancy to breath in large gasps when he was excited or surprised. Later on it was learned that he was actually the third cousin twice removed of a giant koi found living in a pond in the hills of the Osaka prefecture, although this story may have been slightly altered. These days Ed works as a photographer for the local newspaper and occasionally freelances out to the police when they need someone with an iron stomach to document a crime scene. Ed certainly has this, having survived three helpings of his Aunt Maple's plum-and-red-pepper pudding with extra-hot-sauce glazing. He considers his proffesion more of an artform, though, and when he sets his mind to it he can actually produce brilliantly beautiful images of landscapes, sunsets, and people going about the daily routine of living as if twirling through some grand, magnificent dance. But mostly he doesn't, preferring to ambush people and snap photos. Needless to say, Ed doesn't have many friends.
  2. 'Shela, 'Shela! I's in! Character to come.
  3. What with the Vampire werewolf game having finished, it behooves me to shamelessly link my favorite White Wolf RP site. Diablerie.org Word of Warning- This RP, while generally safe enough, does have an 18+ age limit due to the nature of the game, and because they don't want any trouble with possible badness, parents saying "we didn't want our kid exposed to this sort of thing," etc. They also require that all players own a copy / pdf of the World of Darkness Rulebook and Vampire: the Requiem, both easily obtainable from White Wolf's website or Drive-Thru RPGs - aside from that, there are any number of supplements available, but none of those are really needed to enjoy the game. Mainly, I'm plugging this site here because they've recently been going through some growing pains - the ST staff (GMs, basically) got completely reshuffled, the game reset, and a lot of players subsequently fell off. There's a small, dedicated core group left, but there is a need for more players. The game itself is a strange cross between free-form and table-top - the rules and such are in place so you can't just go around and god-mode, but for the most part the story is entirely player-driven. STs don't, as a general rule, go around running scenes and getting in your business. That's for other players to do, with you. It's a little odd to get into, but once you start you'll realize that the only limits are what you and your fellow players are capable of. So if you're a player who can't get to a game often enough, or a GM looking for a change of pace, or just someone interested in getting into roleplaying, but having trouble finding a group, this might just be for you. Just don't be surprised when you get hooked. Any questions, comments, or whatnot is welcome, as always.
  4. Neat. Always good to have a new member aboard, and we look forward to hearing more from you.
  5. Right Brain |||||||||||||||| 70% Left Brain |||| 20% Overall you appear to be Right Brain Dominant. (Really? Hahahahaha! Screw you, Left Brain!) Of the other 10%, 8% got given to Pered a long time ago, and he has yet to return it. The other 2% got paid to Wyvern on membership dues, and I think I might've left a sock in there. I'm managing, somehow.
  6. Hey! It's a sphere! With wings! *noogies* Wibbles, oh shiny one, happy returns and such.
  7. In the second floor of an apartment building, a body tumbles out of bed, gets itself tangled in the power cord of a cheap lamp, drags said lamp to the floor, then swears as it stands and cuts its foot on a piece of shattered lightbulb. The body takes a moment to sit on the edge of the bed, plucking the glass out and waiting for the wound to close, then stumbles into the bathroom and stares into the mirror. Volunteers are soon forgotten, and many more of us shall die... The body brushes its teeth, gargles, then spits red liquid into the sink. Cinnamon Listerine, not blood. The body reaches into its mouth, fiddling around for a moment before coming out with a tooth - black around the top and cracked at the bottom. Something crunchy last night? The sick still feed the hungry, and the last battle song has cried... It stands under the shower, hot water only, until the dirt has scoured off its frame, then lets its mouth fill, feeling the ache where the tooth used to be and wondering if sticking it back in would hurt even more. Ah, but if there's a reason... I don't need to know right now. The shower turns itself off, with only a little help from a hand that may or may not be guided by nerves connected, at some point, to a brain. The brain decides it's had enough of this and exerts itself back on the world, and the body falls away. And the light... Francis steps out of the shower, and towels himself off. Of a fading star... He moves back into the apartment, shutting off the radio by the bedstand. Is what you were... is what you are... Clothes are put on at some point, though he can't really say what point that is, and he pauses to listen to his messages. There's another one dead tonight, even though the pretender's gone. Well, that only makes sense. One agent is fine, but there's got to be an even number, in case one of them fails. Like the glow... that christens the moon... And a Ventrue, at that. They've shut down the communications, stifled voices of reason, and now the pillars. Francis smiles, almost shyly, and admits to himself that at least they're being smart about it. You shone too soon, you shone too soon. But enough of that. The radio's off, so there's no reason to sing along. *** A few hours later found Francis climbing over the wall of the Vylenard gardens, why? Because they were there, that's why. Besides, the inside of the gardens was much more interesting than the outside. The shadows reached out, and Francis let them surround him, embrace him. He moved through the paths, stopping occasionally to smell the roses, and then spied a large granite bench with a large granite statue on it. Or maybe it was just a man that looked like a statue. He grinned slightly and silently tip-toed behind the statue-man, placing his hands over his eyes. "Guess who?" The reaction was instant and... strangely painful. Osidian twisted, propelling the smaller man over his shoulder and wrenching Francis' arm out of its socket. An eyeblink later and a knee fell into the Malkavian's ribcage. There was a satisfying crack and Francis coughed heavily, Cinnamon Listerine trailing out of his mouth. Osidian paused, eye-to-eye with a slight, scraggly-haired man, still with wet hair from his shower, and grunted. "Not many sneak up on me. It's dangerous." "Oh... hack I hadn't realised. How... gurgle Silly of me." Francis made to roll out from under Osidian's grip, and found himself caught. "Not so fast, there. What do you want?" "A chicken in every pot, a car in every garage, and maybe a nice pair of gloves like you have. Oh, right, and the sky to be blue, not black." Osidian finally let him up, and Francis pushed himself onto the bench, holding his chest and squirming uncomfortably. "Is that all, then? Lilah thinks you're fractured, a poor maniac who occasionally has insights that he doesn't even realize. I think she's wrong. I think you're smarter than you let on, less cracked than you pretend to be." "It's all the metaphors, people never do look past them." There was a stiff pop as Francis shoved his arm back in its socket. "But every once in a great while you find someone who gets it. Unfortunately, you're not that one." "Oh really?" "Yup. You think I'm playing the field, don't you? That I spoke out against Francesca not because I saw her as a threat to my oh so precious Camarilla but because I saw her as a threat to my taking of Praxis?" He shrugged, then there was another snap as he forced a rib back into place. "You're wrong. I don't really care about being Prince, it's a damn lot of work and too high-profile anyway." Osidian nodded slowly. "So... why did you, then?" "Because it had to be done. Numbers, remember? Three good murders, three bad ones. We're up to four, five if you count Milosh. Besides, if she hadn't been one, I would have. Dog eat dog eat dog eat vampire world out there, isn't it? But you know about that... you know all about playing the field, not one, not two, but three sides at once. Halfway to a cube, you are. The real question isn't what I want, but you're doing here... Oh, I remember, meeting Lilah, protection for the Tremere, loyal guardian and all. I don't entirely buy that, though." "Then what do you think I'm doing here?" "I think your hands are darker with blood than mine, and that's the way you like it. But enough about that." He turned, smiling brightly and waving. "Lilahspider, stop lurking and come over! At least if you're going to listen in, you can do it to our faces." Francis punched Osidian playfully in the shoulder and popped his last rib back into place with an audible snap, stepping forward to meet her halfway, and falling into step behind her as she moved towards the bench. Oh yes, now it made sense. OOC: A vote for Mith/Osidian! Assamite or Assa-ssassin? Dun dun duuuuuuun! Edit - fixed the lyrics in the first half, which, for the curious, are from The Light of a Fading Star, by Flogging Molly.
  8. While there is a bit of blue in the Reply screen, you are still the shizzle and my hero. Go Patrick!
  9. "Nosferatu always are the first to die in a war, Lilah..." The Tremere started, looking around herself quickly and reaching for her handbag before recognizing the voice coming from above. She looked up, and sure as day there he was, spread out on the edge of a third-story window ledge, legs dangling out into the open air and arms trailing as if he weren't even conscious. He smiled, but there wasn't much humor in it. "Or in this case, third to die, but it wouldn't be as catchy a saying that way. Now come up here and keep me company, the view is amazing." Lilah sighed briefly and wondered, but a few minutes later found herself sitting upright next to Francis' prone form, and had to admit, however silently, that the view really was amazing. "So you think this is a war, now? A power vacuum, a few deaths, yes, but nothing I'd call a war." He shook his head, rolling over and nearly toppling over the side of the building in the process. "There are many ways to wage a war, Lilahspider... force of arms is just the most visible. Notice who's gotten themselves killed so far? Milosh, obviously, prat of a twit of a ponce of a bullfighter, and the Prince at that. An obvious target for destabilizing the city, and it worked, didn't it? And them Simon, poor little upstart Brujah would-be politician, dissenting voice who might have been able to bring a little order to this chaos. And now, the Nosferatu are targetted, information gatherers, servants of Hermes, those who could shed light on the clouding shadows. And who's the most interested in shadows, hmmm?" OOC: Vote for Mardrax / Francesca agin! Woohoo! (I'm so gonna die. ;.
  10. And in the day, what dreamings come? What heat-sparked riot fills the mind, Of sleeping, slothful, sinful synapses, Near to bursting with delight? The same dreams come by day or night, We are but records, life's relapses, And somewhere someone's losing time, As dreams descend, ascends the sun. Francis shot up in his cool, dark apartment in the middle of the day, and looked about himself. Daytime shadows were always so much more frightening than the night ones... at least in the dark it was easy to spot where the light was coming from. He stumbled out onto the floor, crawling under the window, even though it was securely covered in heavy curtains which had been painstakingly nailed to the floor, walls, and windowframe, then glued around the corners. One could never be too sure. The phone was ringing. It was always ringing, somewhere. He took a moment to wet his mouth before picking up. "Who is it?" The next few moments went by in silence, as the news that Simon Hopkins had been found dead was relayed, then he hung up without so much as a how-do-you-do. Fools. Fools. Nothing to be done about it now, anyway... and sometimes foolery was the right thing. Still, Brujah were easy enough to miss, if you didn't know them too well, and Francis hadn't known Simon at all, really. Francis crawled back into bed slowly, laboriously, and lay there on his back with his eyes open. He drifted downwards, into the spiral blackness of sleep, and watched the ceiling tiles crawl over each other, shifting and coalescing into patterns of absolute truth as the rats whispered in the walls. Lilah would already know, of course. Everyone would, soon enough, if they didn't already. One murder always follows another, bad things and good each come in threes. Three good murders, three bad ones. Six dead in all. Which had Simon been? No use worrying about it. No use losing sleep if Simon was one of the good murders. Francis lost some all the same, just in case.
  11. Francis stumbled out of the bar not terribly long after he had gone in. Lilah's meeting, while definitely interesting, had turned out to be quite a downer. Besides, it was too cold in there. You'd think they'd spring a little for some heat, even if the mortals were warm-blooded. A few blocks down he turned down an alley, and knocked over a trash can in passing. The real question wasn't who killed Milosh - if you tried to work backwards through a list of enemies of the Toreador, you'd probably spend the rest of eternity looking. No, the real question was why now? What had triggered the death, and who stood to gain? A small squeaking noise came from inside the overturned can, and Francis paused for a moment, kneeling down and extending a hand. A small brown mouse stepped out onto it, and he raised it to his ear. A few more moments of squeaking, and Francis' face broke into a wide smile. All so simple, when you thought about it. He removed the hand from his ear, holding the mouse up in front of his face by the tail. It squirmed a little, but mice had long since learned not to bite Francis. "Do you know what you are? You are a Very Helpful Mouse. I am in your debt." He raised the mouse over his face, lowering it slowly into his mouth, and held it there for a few moments, considering. He was hungry, after all, but when wasn't he? And the mouse had been helpful. Even now it huddled still, shivering slightly. Francis shrugged and gently lifted the rodent out of his mouth, sitting it back on top of the trash can. There were other mice to catch tonight, mice who had been very UnHelpful Indeed, and slipped through the cracks in their warrens, out into the kitchen, and into the butter, intent on stealing it and carrying the butter back to the warren to split with the other UnHelpful Mice. But then the UnHelpful Mouse had realized something. Why take the butter back and split it with a bunch of rats when it could just stay here and have it all to itself? That would be smarter. Greedier. Disloyal. Antitribu. Oh yes, there was already an UnHelpful Mouse in this butter dish. And it had grown fat enough to eye the owners and wonder can I take the whole kitchen? Francis smiled slightly to himself and wandered down the alley, straightening quickly and looking for all the world like a respectable young man who had not just had a dirty trash mouse in his mouth by the time he reached his apartment building, and picked up the phone. OOC: A vote for Mardrax / Francesca - because a Lasombra is a Lasombra is a Lasombra, even if they play in our butter.
  12. *tackles and huggles, then casts Summon Birthday Cake Elemental, Conjure Streamers, and Call Novelty Balloons With Slightly Deranged Clowns On Them* Happy birthday, racoondog!
  13. "And there's the story, really... spectacular art collection, little pile of ashes." He shrugged, shoving his hands in the pockets of an uncharacteristically clean white blazer. "That's not the way I want to die, Lilah, keep that in mind when you stab me in the back." The scene is this - a man in a white suit walks out of a building next to a woman in much darker colors; his dusty hair is tangled and unkempt, hanging unchecked in his eyes, hers is straight and black, carefully combed into submission. He slouches, she does not. She rolls her eyes. "I'll try and keep it in mind." Lilah has long sinced learned that arguing the point with Francis generally ends in a more confusing place than it started, and so she lets it slide... for now. "How do you want to die, if you don't mind my asking? Not that I'd stab you in the back, just out of curiosity." He thinks about this for a moment, then shrugs again. "Lilah Lestrand... Lie, lalala, and le strand. So a singing liar spinning a web." He shakes his head, grinning with a bit too much tooth to be coincident. "Oh you'd stab me in the back if things were different. And I want to die in the sun, Lilahbelle. I think it'd be very poetic." She gives a small laugh, though it sounds either forced or only barely amused, and he takes this as a cue to continue. "Speaking of which, who do you think killed the Prince?" "I'm sorry? Didn't the Primogen say it was the work of a kine?" "Don't play stupid, Lilahspider." He reaches out, punching her softly in the shoulder. "And don't call them kine, if you want to call a mortal a cow, just say cow. Besides, cows have flat teeth and don't generally actively seek to kill humans... now if some jealous cowboy were to push his boss into an oncoming stampede, they could very easily crush him to death, but the cows wouldn't know or care why he was dead." Lilah appeared to consider this for a moment, then dusted off her arm where Francis had touched her. You never knew what he might have picked up sleeping in a dumpster. "So you're saying you think it was orchestrated by one of the Kindred?" "Very astute, Lilahdeer." He pulled one hand out of his pocket, holding it up to a streetlamp, and stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. "Down and down the rabbit hole, And all the walls do shrink, Scraping, clawing everywhere, But not a drop to drink." Lilah clapped, and they continued on, across the street. "That's a play on Coleridge, right? Rime of the Ancient Mariner?" "Something like that. Where are we going, by the way? Another mysterious midnight meeting with some mendicant mastermind of mortal manipulation?" Lilah smiled contently, with perhaps a touch of patronizing sympathy. "Very astute, Francis dear." Outwardly, Francis smiled right back. Inwardly, he shrugged and shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. There was always fun to be had in the company of Very Educated Individuals.
  14. (Wow, that came out a lot longer than it did in my head...)
  15. (I warned you!) Name: What's in a name? Francis (just for show, don't you know), Rat-cather, that dirtbag on the corner, what was that noise?, oh god it's coming in the window... sometimes it's best just to be simple. So let's stick with Francis. Clan: Malkavian Generation: 10th, if Francis put any stock in that sort of thing. Demeanor: Well, my sire used to say, de meaner you is, de longer you lives, but I don't think that's what we're talking about. (Perhaps something in a nice Jester, but being realistic, it changes far too often to really care about.) Nature: Is generally good, but keep it outside the city, thank you. (Or Architect, if you must.) Apparent Age: Depends on if he's been eating, what he's been eating, and whether he's had a bath, but generally ranges between well-dressed 20ish and 'get the hell away from me.' Actual Age: 27? 52? 84 thousand? Old enough to know the deal, anyway. Disciplines of Note: Dementation - while he's not the most skilled user ever, he wields what little ability he has like a surgical scalpel, whittling away the overly strong emotions and increasing the muted ones until his intended target is in complete balance. Complete, perfect balance. Auspex - common belief is that Francis has exactly no talent with this discipline. He's only rarely appeared to percieve the deeper meanings of the world, and the few times he has, he's been dead wrong, or at least undead wrong. Of course, common is just an archaic word for 'useless.' Francis has also displayed (or at least claimed to display) small bits of talent with Obfuscate, Animalism (he talks to animals anyway, and assumes they talk back), and Dominate. History: Walter Mondale once said "A man at peace is a man in the grave..." Ok, maybe he didn't actually say that, but I bet he was thinking it. Rat-catcher's sire believed this - so firmly, in fact, that immediately upon siring Francis, he stuffed the poor boy in a coffin; which was then nailed shut, secured with concrete, and stowed away in a storage building. Francis was promptly forgotten about, and there the story would have ended... were it not for the blessed advent of teenage vandals, and their warm, tasty... erm... well, vandals. That was a bit less than 30 years ago, and to this day, Francis has no idea how long he was in the coffin... he is not, in fact, even very convinced that 'Francis' is his real name. It was on a funny piece of plastic with what is quite possibly his picture on it, but these things can be faked, and anyone who'd stuff a neonate in a coffin for eighty-four thousand years probably has a sick sense of humor. Still, it's the only actual name he has at the moment, so it'll have to do. In the meantime, Francis (or Rat-catcher, when he's in a slump), has come to the realisation that it doesn't matter who he was, so much as who he is - and who he is, is someone important. After all, the world keeps throwing exactly what he needs at him. First, he was embraced and left for dead... well, undead... and that's good, since he wouldn't have held any truck with being under some stodgy old elder's wing for too long. Second, he was left for long enough that figuring out just how old he was is impossible, even for himself... and that's good, since he wouldn't have dealt very well with being treated like an ignorant childe, either. And lastly, he's not just a vampire, he's a Malkavian and that is sooo good, because he can do, say, or think just about anything he wants, and nobody thinks it's strange. Well, any stranger than any other Malkavian, anyway. Yes, the stars have a plan for Francis, and he's going to see them through. Other Things that Might Be Good to Know: Francis has a very detailed knowledge of history, though he tends to think of it by what music was popular at the time rather than in terms of major events. (Hence the Renaisance tends to be referred to as the "Clinky Harpsichord Era," much to the ticking-off of several poncy Toreador.) He's been fairly active in city politics since his re-awakening, on the platform that age is both a benefit and a curse to the city's leadership. This view has made him quite popular among the younger crowd, but generally disliked by the older one - apparently the idea that common sense is just that - common - doesn't float so well with the elders. The identity of Francis' sire is still unknown, though Francis claims to be absolutely sure that said sire is still alive, and in the city. Of course, he's also fairly sure the rats tell him which lottery tickets to buy sometimes, so that might just be blowing smoke. He lives alternately in a utilitarian uptown loft, feeding on the sick and homeless; and in a dumpster two blocks north, with a small family of choleric indigents, feeding on middle-class white-collar workers. After all, you have to shift your paradigm every now and then.
  16. Placeholder - Malkavian to come, though. Be afraid! ... Or don't. Your choice. But you were warned! ... Or you weren't. Your choice.
  17. Do you recall those winter nights, When we'd go walking, hand in hand, Through snowy streets and look at stars, Or just be still, Under the lights, And blow white breath at passing cars? Or summer days on seaside roads, With music floating in the air, A silver necklace, quite a deal, Lunch on the steps, It's hard to know, I can't but wonder that it's real. And still I wonder how this chase, Found me finding my heart's desire, But since those nights, my wish has been, For love-blind eyes, That see your face, And never want to blink again.
  18. Damn skippy it does. I've also recently (finally) got around to snagging a copy of God of War, and while it's definitely a bit adult in theme, it is absolutely gorgeous, very intuitive, and downright fun. Also epic, did we mention epic? Yes, epic is the word. Your first boss is a Hydra that has fairly a fairly strong kraken influence, and you work your way up from there. Yes, you work your way up from a giant shipwrecking monster. Apparently, to Ares. Good luck with that.
  19. Neat! Enjoy your trip, and hopefully we'll see more goodtastic stoof from ya when you get back.
  20. And there it was, propped in a corner as if, for all the world, it had always been there. Rob tore another small patch of hair out, turned, breathed deeply a few times, and ran screaming from the room, never to return. *** Two Weeks Earlier "I promise, Mr. Kosten, it's the last cleaning device you'll ever need. Completely automated, all you do is hold on for the ride, maybe walk where you want to clean... swinging it back and forth, ever so gently, as if the world weighed no more than a feather. And you can't go wrong with the simple, one-hundred-and-eighty degree angled neck or the gen-you-ine North American Redwood cleaning tips. A steal at only two hundred ninety-nine ninety nine!" Rob Kosten looked at the strange, scraggly person that had badgered him on the street just outside the law firm where he worked. The he looked at what he was holding. "It's a broom." "Oh, nonono, Mr. Kosten, this here's not just a broom, it's a gen-you-ine Miracle Stick, carved from the finest Old World ash when the world was still young and the gods themselves needed something to sweep under the little cracks of creation, if you catch my drift. Why it was given to me not twenty years ago by a feller who, I have it on good authority, was sold it by Hephestus himself! C'mon, one-hundred ninety-nine ninety-nine's a fair price, ain't it? That's a whole hundred dollars less than the last offer, and it's not every day you come across a gen-you-ine Miracle Stick!" Rob considered the broom for a moment... true, it did look to be in remarkably good condition, the handle was straight and shiny, and the bristles looked like they'd never even been used. Still, the man smelled horrible, and $199.99 for a broom was more than any sane man would pay. Rob, of course, responded in the manner of upper-middle class businessmen everywhere. "Go get a job, you filthy bum!" And with that, Rob Kosten pushed his way past the dirty, bedraggled old man who'd tried to sell him a gen-you-ine miracle broom for only two hundred dollars. The bum gave a vague smile and stepped back into his alley with empty hands. *** One Week and Six Days Ago Rob Kosten's office was spotless by nature - pristine, every small piece of furniture exactly where it should be every morning. The mighty, formica and fiberglass desk, tastefully painted in a vinyl black that matched the faux leather swivel-chair which sat behind it. Along the side wall, a commanding aluminum filing cabinet (standard issue grey, with none of the silly magnets or stickers his contemporaries used) stood silent vigil over the bay window, in the corner of which... Was a broom. Rob walked carefully over to it, hesitating to touch the magnificent ash handle, carved when the world was young and the gods needed to sweep out the corners of creation. Then he shook his head, picked it up, and chucked it out the window. How it caught on the filing cabinet, carrying six hundred pounds and seventeen years of paperwork to crash down onto a busy city street, he couldn't have been paid to say. *** One Week and Four Days Ago Rob turned in his dreams, tearing at his starched, perfectly pressed white sheets in a sweaty panic. He cried out, pulling his arms over his face in a defensive measure, then attempted to curl into a fetal ball, and fell out of bed onto his shiny, polished, plastic tile floor. The smell of smoke, sulphur, and, oddly enough, bacon lingered in the dark recesses of shadowy nightmare. He had a vague impression of a large figure with badly twisted legs pounding something with a mallet the size of his mighty formica and fiberglass desk while flames licked ever higher in the background, and shiverred at the remembrance that it had been him. He pushed himself up, then immediately fell over and writhed with the pain of an unexpected charlie horse. A few agonized minutes later, he rose again and went to the bathroom. When he returned to his bedroom, there in the middle of the bed, his sheets twisted around it as if it had always been there, was the miracle broom. Rob spent all of five seconds trying to figure out how it had gotten there, then grabbed it and chucked it out into the hallway. *** Five Days Ago Rob coughed, looking into his bathroom warily. The broom wasn't there... It had haunted him for more than a week now, always showing up on the eve of some terrible event... the loss of his best pair of shoes to a freak pile of dog doo he could have sworn hadn't been there... the ruination of an exquisite faux silk tie that got caught in the shredder at work... It had even ruined his date with Angie from accounting last night, when he'd spied it through the swinging door of the kitchen they'd been tastefully seated next to, and had dove under the table to hide from it. Angie had been quite incensed, especially seeing as she'd been wearing a skirt at the time, and Rob was now on the verge of being fired for sexual harrasment. He crept into the bathroom and stood in front of the sink, quickly downing two aspirin for the headache he could feel coming. Rob was only mildly surprised to see the broom reflected in the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet as he closed it, but he fainted anyway. It's not every day you see a broom taking a shower. *** Ten Minutes Ago Rob Kosten warily entered his once-proud office, fortress of his immense, confidant, solitude. He desperately wanted Angie in accounting to hold his hand and keep him company today, but she was still considering legal action, and he didn't think it would be a good idea to ask her. The broom didn't even make any bones about hiding now. It stood, propped against his might formica and fiberglass desk, staring at him. Taunting him. Threatening him. Rob couldn't take it anymore. Who was he to be reduced to skulking around like some mail-room intern? And all over fear of a common household cleaning aid! Rob threw himself at the broom, grabbing it around the neck and choking the dear life out of it. After a brief six or seven minutes, he realized this was very stupid, and instead whacked it against the side of his desk until it shattered cleanly along the middle. Only then did he realize the company manager was standing outside his office, looking in through the open door with a vague and not alltogether pleased look of polite worry. He opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again, and then put on a slightly false-looking smile. Rob thought it might have been meant to look reassuring. "Kosten, old boy, why don't you take a few weeks leave?" Rob hesitated for a moment, then nodded and hung his head. "Right... just let me get my suitcase, then." Rob turned around to retrieve his suitcase from behind the mighty formica and fiberglass desk, idly glancing around the office as he did so. And there it was, propped in a corner as if, for all the world, it had always been there. Rob tore another small patch of hair out, turned, breathed deeply a few times, and ran screaming from the room, never to return. *** Five Minutes Later "Please, please, please take it off my hands! I'll give you..." Rob fumbled with his wallet. "Eighty dollars!" The old bum sat at the mouth of his alley, and shook his head with a slow grin. "Once it ain't been paid for, sonny jim, it can't help but follow yer around. See, to me the Miracle Stick had a price. A value it could be bought and sold for. To you, it's priceless. Imagine how that makes it feel! I bet it really likes you by now." Rob considered strangling the man. Instead, he settled on simply tearing out a larger patch of hair, screaming, and running off, also never to return. And that was the last anyone ever heard of Rob Kosten and his broom, though not the last Rob ever heard of his broom, though he wished it had been.
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