Disco-neck Ted

That luscious caramel filling In chocolate black and bold Seducing naive tastebuds And loosing Reason's hold Yes, sinful little confit Exploding in the brain Singing songs of ersatz love: Addiction cancels pain So playful sweet confections Hold loneliness at bay Hand to mouth and don't go out- A tiny price to pay Now feel the candy coating Adipose, thick and gray Closer than a lover's touch And faithful, here to stay With the trembling last dessert The final trade is done Half a heart without love's grace Ends half a sad sweet song Oh, creamy casket filling Or ashes in an urn We move into the afterlife With calories to burn That creamy casket filling Draws the Reaper 'round He savors every mouthful And never gains a pound. (Thanks to David Letterman's Top Ten List of Keebler Elf Euphemisms for Death for inspiration, and for the line "creamy casket filling") Shadows chase the errant clouds

Ex-ter-min-ate!

Nice. Smooth and readable, very entertaining. I really enjoyed the way the information is revealed rather than stated. Liked this: I can hear her saying this, the rise and fall of her voice. And this: Cool random detail. Snickered here: In fact, all of it is strong. I'd keep reading. After sinking into the story, however, there were one or two minor distractions that nudged me away from total immersion. People are often imprecise and convoluted in speech, but even with that in mind, this stands out as different from the rest of Damien's word flow. Perhaps that was intentional? Hard to tell in something this brief without more to compare it to, but it seemed worth mentioning in case it wasn't planned. Easy to ignore, regardless. I liked what you accomplished here with the visual, but the punctuation and word choice seemed a bit off, with the repetition of the word 'episodes' making things extra complicated given that it should be in quotes the second time as well. Would breaking out of speech to description and then re-entering work better with dashes, maybe? So, no problems of note and lots to like. Looking forward to seeing more.

A figure dressed in red from his cloven hooves to his pointy horns entered. He peered around the room through a black domino mask and flashed a fiery sneer that illuminated every corner. Placing a wooden window-frame near the entryway, he expertly installed fresh glass, puttying it in place with his pitchfork. He treated the room to another sneer and left. *SMASH* The new glasswork disintegrated in a cascade of glittering shards as a brick skidded to a halt against the opposite wall. A pretty good brick. One that might be worth a few geld. "Wondered where I left that," Wyvern muttered. He pocketed the masonry, but not before first removing a sheet of glossy paper that turned out to be one of his own fliers: Get Rich Now! Be the proud proprieter of your own franchise! Market the revolutionary new line of Almost-Draconic Water-Powered Fish! "Geldfissssh," Wyvern said happily. Then he frowned. Some miscreant had scribbled on the back of his advert. The note read: We have Ted. Neener-neener-NEEner! -Satan ANONYMOUS "This could be sssseriousss," Wyvern hissed, frowning at the page. "No, wait, with a little tape, the flyer can be reusssed." The large reptile settled back on the chairs and closed his eyes. OOC: DnT is in the 323rd level of hell, that one known as "internetlessnessness", for the foreseeable future (i.e. ten days, perhaps two weeks).

Hmmm. Please excuse me, I'm off to watch vegetarian science fiction movies at home while sharpening my knives.

"If there is one more plague on Egypt, it is by your word that God will bring it."

"Dang... I still can't get the hang of that 'Live long and prosper' thing."

Hiya. Nice piece of work. I particularly like the way you sketch vivid images with just a few words. So: "...our combined weight dropping steadily as raw ramen and water slowly withered away at us." Awesome (and quite disgusting). On the down side, the narrator appears to be mortally wounded as the story finishes, and without the opening paragraph, I'd conclude that he lost the fight and will die. I'm having trouble reconciling the start with the end, although that could be due to imagination failure on my part. This is particularly sad because the opening sentence is so intriguing. Definitely looking forward to the result if the muse moves you to write more on this. -DnT

Attracted by the noise, a gangly figure entered the room, rhythmically gyrating his cervical vertebrae. The dim light outside the spot contained several figures: a skeletal rat lurking in the shadows, a dragon-like creature, a three-eyed slayer, and-- whoah, was that a spider??? Dun-dan-DUNH! Fangs glistening in the spotlight, the eight-legged nightmare gathered itself melodramatically for a final attack. Even the rubber chicken lay motionless in fear. *Ffffssssshhhhhht* The aerosol can in Ted’s hand hissed, and a stream of mist glittered in the air like fairy dust. The spider seemed to shrink in on itself. With a boneless plop, it slid to the floor, a random collection of hairy legs. As the slayer rubbed her watering eyes, no doubt wishing for a third hand to rub with, Ted became aware of general disapproval building in the room, the kind that could be directed towards someone who might have just sprayed a cloud of poison in an enclosed space. He smiled. “Arachnid fever, “ he said, as if that explained everything, and held up the spray-can. The label read: Krelbin’s Anti-Viral Agent #16 (maximum strength). For use on Spiders, Scorpions, Ticks, Chiggers, Mites, Daddy Longlegs and Vinegarroons (especially Vinegarroons). Mood-lightening music played just outside the range of audibility, and the tension eased. Nervous laughter came from somewhere. “Yep,” Ted continued, “when they get the fever you just can’t get near them with a needle, so vaccinations are out of the question. Cheers!” He snapped his fingers twice. Without a trace of remaining menace, the spider righted itself and followed Ted out the door. A voice was audible from behind them, possibly the wyvern speaking: “Was it my imagination or did that guy have theme music?” Even fainter, an answer: “Yeah, and a background score. I would have sworn that was Warren Zevon playing when he came in.”

She might yet survive. With the right sort of smile, hope and sadness with just a touch of promise playing across the stage of fear that was the rest of her face, there was still a chance. The key to deflecting the terminal stroke lay in the hypothetical: what might come if she were allowed to show gratitude later? Hope and sadness would not likely find purchase on the ravaged subsurface of her opponent’s heart and turn knave to knight. But they fueled the promise, made real the offer of bargaining potential favors in the future for very real mercy in the now. A lot of weight to place on one curve of the lips, but it was all she had left. Eyes locked to those of her would-be executioner, she was aware as his hand hovered over the button that controlled her fate, then away again. Finally, with a click, it was over. “B-16,” he said. “I sank your battleship!” Permafrost Wimple Agrarian Shrike