Re: The Glorious Championship! [S3G5] [Round One: The "Denny's"]
06-23-2011, 12:07 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by Lord Paradise.
There was an awful lot of paper streaming out of Etiyr. The typewriter and the man who seemed to have some unseemly self-control issues with his hand made emphatic clacking noises all through the commotion with the wolf. The man looked like he may have been crying. Eli felt she ought to be hitting something, but didn’t know whether either Etiyr or the man deserved it, so she waited.
The clacking trickled to a stop. Old Greg nervously allowed his hand to rip the paper out, and handed it to Eli. ”This is… for you I guess?” he whimpered.
Eli sat down and began to read. The paper read as follows:
FFUUCCKK YYOOUU Convie scum you do not type on me like that no one types on me like that nope pretty sure I’m typing on you like this right now type type type fuck you with a tyyyyyyype a rake and we are never going to get anywhere if you keep interpooprupting me like this? YES LIKE THAT, HOW ARE YOU TYPING THAT FAST WITH ONE HAND Old Greg gets a lot of mileage out of this hand amirite that is not pertinent shut up shut up Look. Listen to me for shut uuuuuuuuuuupone minute. This is the only way I can communicate right now, hmmm? No one wants you to communicate you malevolent motherfuOh I am not malevolent, give it a break.cker, you spread by communication. Gosh you make me sound like some kind of STD Is everything about sex to you? Naaaaaah I’m malevolent, see. Everything’s about world domination and winning the battle and all that good stuff. Don’t throw my words back at me! But it’s fun! Here, catch! ”Don’t throw my words back at me!” This is stup—ow. That hurt. You were supposed to catch, silly! Okay, I’m not going to try and think too hard abo¨† ∑˙a† ¥ø¨ ∆¨ß† åååååååååå˙ ååååååååååååå˙ åååååååå˙ ∑˙å† †˙´ ƒ¨ç˚ That was an alt key. ˆ ÎØ˜Æˇ ÓÅ◊´ ŠϨLj˜˝ ÍÒˇ ´Á ˆ Å ŠˇÁ∏´„‰ˆˇ´‰ Nope, pretty sure you have an alt key. Ooh, check it. ∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆ That shit is, like, my signature. That’s alt+j, for reference. What the ƒ¨ç˚ Tee hee Do you have magic powers now or some ß˙ˆ†? The more you keep up with those profanities, mister, the more I’m going to have to censor them out. Can’t you see you’re upsetting Old Greg? No one gives a ƒ¨ç˚ about Old OH MY GOD IT’S A WEREWOLF WHAT THE HELL And no, magic as an institution died with Tolkien. I just have special powers of not giving a fuck. Shit, I don’t even know what I am. Okay, you know what? I amaah shit, motherfucker I am an antique, I am not supposed to be dropped—I am sick enough of your bulldinkyshit that I am going to let you say what you have to say. Go ahead. Thank you. Was that so hard? Ahem.
RULE 1: YOU DO NOT HURT MY PEOPLE
See Old Greg? That guy on the other end of my hand? Look at his face. [Eli looked up from the paper and looked at Old Greg’s face. Old Greg was sitting on the floor next to the dog, his back to Etiyr, stealing a glance at Eli out of the corner of his eye. He looked like a child who knows he has done something wrong and is awaiting his punishment. It was pretty cute.] Isn’t he cute? HE IS ONE OF MY PEOPLE. You do not hurt him. The dog, too. And the werewolf. And pretty much everyone else wandering this facility who isn’t one of you people. Except the cyborg. Fuck that guy.
RULE 2: YOU DO NOT TALK ABOUT THE GLORIOUS CHAMPIONSHIP.
That joke would have been better if it had been the same as rule #1, but rule #1 was way more important, so.
RULE 3: BUT SERIOUSLY, THE GLORIOUS CHAMPIONSHIP IS FOR DOUCHEBAGS
Anyway, Mr. fucking genie man does not know how to create a proper party environment. I strongly suggest you make no attempt to kill each other. Kick your feet up. Have breakfast. Form a band. These are the types of fun and mutually gratifying experiences that we could all be enjoying, except that the guy in charge told us we’re all supposed to be killing each other, so you’re all like “Okay! Where are guns?” Not kosher, guys!
Okay that’s all the rules I could think of. So um.
PARTE DOS: DEAR OTHER CONTESTANTS
DEAR GABE: Sorry about that, um… badge… problem. Frankly, you are not the contestant that I would have picked to carry around my sigaldric baggage… sigilic? Sigilriffic? My badge. But it seems we’re stuck together. So, in conclusion, you’re my bitch now, and good luck in your future career in the culinary arts.
DEAR LUCKY: You and I are going to have a good time together. That is more or less a guarantee, and you shouldn’t fight it. Not to put too fine a point on it, but I want to be inside you. Far be it from me to make a “get Lucky” pun, so pretend that Etiyr wrote the next sentence. I did not! Wait. Dammit. Ha!
DEAR CAILEAN AND GAURINN: I like your style, and we should hang sometime.
DEAR ELI: Eli, Eli, Eli. Elimiiiiine. You’re stuck in a bit of a boys’ club, aren’t you? Well, boys and inanimate things. The point is, there’s a major dearth of vaginas, except for Lucky, who has billions and billions of vaginas but they’re all tiny and no fun. Anyway, you know if you need some company, I can be whatever you want me to be. We could make some music together, and—again—that’s only as much of a euphemism as you’re comfortable with. Basically what I’m saying is, I like your hair. [Eli ran a hand through her hair self-consciously. The black stripe curled itself around her finger, as though on purpose.] Oh, come on, Eli, you’re not going to fall for this thing’s shtick, are you? Look. If you’re as completely offended by the Convolution’s come-ons as I am on your behalf, you should do us all a favor, take that trombone of yours and cut off “Old Greg” here’s hand. It’d be doing him a favor, look how miserable he is. [Old Greg was rubbing the dog’s belly with his right hand. He looked up at Eli pathetically. ”I fucking hate dogs,” he sighed. Eli shrugged and continued reading.] Please forgive Etiyr’s misguided chivalry. He really can get masculine sometimes, for a purportedly genderless object. Still, he doesn’t understand how it feels to have certain… needs. I understand all too well. I think you do, too. Call me.
DEAR QUANTOS: Okay so I have this theory. You went back in time and had your family name changed to “Xodarap” and then convinced your parents to name you “Quantos” so you could have a cool-sounding time cop name when you became a time cop, didn’t you? I admire that kind of attention to detail. Anyway I’d like you to know that I would flux you. Hahahahahaha snort. Really? Really.
DEAR AMP: I was thinking about converting this Denny’s into a nightclub and I could put you to good use. I’ll have my people call your people.
DEAR ETINopeFine. You know my heart. Well, I’m out. Old Greg, tear this out and put it in the nice lady’s hands. ELI, CUT HIS HAND OFF Eli, darling. Etiyr is understandably emotional because DEMANICATE HIM there is simply no way that that’s a word I’m the typewriter here, I’ll decide what is or is not a word. Point. Anyway, cutting my man’s hand off is a STRICT contravention of Rule 1, so… try it at your own risk. Old Greg?
Eli looked at the typewriter lying on the floor and the morose-looking man and the happy-looking dog. As she admired this peaceful scene, she wondered where all the hateful feelings on the paper had come from, and where they had gone (probably, she concluded, out with the werewolf).
She looked down at her trombone. The blade was certainly sharp enough to cut through bone.
She looked up at Old Greg. He was quite handsome in a certain light, really.
“Old Greg?” she ventured.
Old Greg turned his head. ”Yeah?
”Come here.”
There was an awful lot of paper streaming out of Etiyr. The typewriter and the man who seemed to have some unseemly self-control issues with his hand made emphatic clacking noises all through the commotion with the wolf. The man looked like he may have been crying. Eli felt she ought to be hitting something, but didn’t know whether either Etiyr or the man deserved it, so she waited.
The clacking trickled to a stop. Old Greg nervously allowed his hand to rip the paper out, and handed it to Eli. ”This is… for you I guess?” he whimpered.
Eli sat down and began to read. The paper read as follows:
FFUUCCKK YYOOUU Convie scum you do not type on me like that no one types on me like that nope pretty sure I’m typing on you like this right now type type type fuck you with a tyyyyyyype a rake and we are never going to get anywhere if you keep interpooprupting me like this? YES LIKE THAT, HOW ARE YOU TYPING THAT FAST WITH ONE HAND Old Greg gets a lot of mileage out of this hand amirite that is not pertinent shut up shut up Look. Listen to me for shut uuuuuuuuuuupone minute. This is the only way I can communicate right now, hmmm? No one wants you to communicate you malevolent motherfuOh I am not malevolent, give it a break.cker, you spread by communication. Gosh you make me sound like some kind of STD Is everything about sex to you? Naaaaaah I’m malevolent, see. Everything’s about world domination and winning the battle and all that good stuff. Don’t throw my words back at me! But it’s fun! Here, catch! ”Don’t throw my words back at me!” This is stup—ow. That hurt. You were supposed to catch, silly! Okay, I’m not going to try and think too hard abo¨† ∑˙a† ¥ø¨ ∆¨ß† åååååååååå˙ ååååååååååååå˙ åååååååå˙ ∑˙å† †˙´ ƒ¨ç˚ That was an alt key. ˆ ÎØ˜Æˇ ÓÅ◊´ ŠϨLj˜˝ ÍÒˇ ´Á ˆ Å ŠˇÁ∏´„‰ˆˇ´‰ Nope, pretty sure you have an alt key. Ooh, check it. ∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆ That shit is, like, my signature. That’s alt+j, for reference. What the ƒ¨ç˚ Tee hee Do you have magic powers now or some ß˙ˆ†? The more you keep up with those profanities, mister, the more I’m going to have to censor them out. Can’t you see you’re upsetting Old Greg? No one gives a ƒ¨ç˚ about Old OH MY GOD IT’S A WEREWOLF WHAT THE HELL And no, magic as an institution died with Tolkien. I just have special powers of not giving a fuck. Shit, I don’t even know what I am. Okay, you know what? I amaah shit, motherfucker I am an antique, I am not supposed to be dropped—I am sick enough of your bulldinkyshit that I am going to let you say what you have to say. Go ahead. Thank you. Was that so hard? Ahem.
MANIFESTO OF “THE CONVOLUTION”
Which I am pretty sure was never a name by which I have referred to myself
I forget
PART ONE: THE RULESWhich I am pretty sure was never a name by which I have referred to myself
I forget
RULE 1: YOU DO NOT HURT MY PEOPLE
See Old Greg? That guy on the other end of my hand? Look at his face. [Eli looked up from the paper and looked at Old Greg’s face. Old Greg was sitting on the floor next to the dog, his back to Etiyr, stealing a glance at Eli out of the corner of his eye. He looked like a child who knows he has done something wrong and is awaiting his punishment. It was pretty cute.] Isn’t he cute? HE IS ONE OF MY PEOPLE. You do not hurt him. The dog, too. And the werewolf. And pretty much everyone else wandering this facility who isn’t one of you people. Except the cyborg. Fuck that guy.
RULE 2: YOU DO NOT TALK ABOUT THE GLORIOUS CHAMPIONSHIP.
That joke would have been better if it had been the same as rule #1, but rule #1 was way more important, so.
RULE 3: BUT SERIOUSLY, THE GLORIOUS CHAMPIONSHIP IS FOR DOUCHEBAGS
Anyway, Mr. fucking genie man does not know how to create a proper party environment. I strongly suggest you make no attempt to kill each other. Kick your feet up. Have breakfast. Form a band. These are the types of fun and mutually gratifying experiences that we could all be enjoying, except that the guy in charge told us we’re all supposed to be killing each other, so you’re all like “Okay! Where are guns?” Not kosher, guys!
Okay that’s all the rules I could think of. So um.
PARTE DOS: DEAR OTHER CONTESTANTS
DEAR GABE: Sorry about that, um… badge… problem. Frankly, you are not the contestant that I would have picked to carry around my sigaldric baggage… sigilic? Sigilriffic? My badge. But it seems we’re stuck together. So, in conclusion, you’re my bitch now, and good luck in your future career in the culinary arts.
DEAR LUCKY: You and I are going to have a good time together. That is more or less a guarantee, and you shouldn’t fight it. Not to put too fine a point on it, but I want to be inside you. Far be it from me to make a “get Lucky” pun, so pretend that Etiyr wrote the next sentence. I did not! Wait. Dammit. Ha!
DEAR CAILEAN AND GAURINN: I like your style, and we should hang sometime.
DEAR ELI: Eli, Eli, Eli. Elimiiiiine. You’re stuck in a bit of a boys’ club, aren’t you? Well, boys and inanimate things. The point is, there’s a major dearth of vaginas, except for Lucky, who has billions and billions of vaginas but they’re all tiny and no fun. Anyway, you know if you need some company, I can be whatever you want me to be. We could make some music together, and—again—that’s only as much of a euphemism as you’re comfortable with. Basically what I’m saying is, I like your hair. [Eli ran a hand through her hair self-consciously. The black stripe curled itself around her finger, as though on purpose.] Oh, come on, Eli, you’re not going to fall for this thing’s shtick, are you? Look. If you’re as completely offended by the Convolution’s come-ons as I am on your behalf, you should do us all a favor, take that trombone of yours and cut off “Old Greg” here’s hand. It’d be doing him a favor, look how miserable he is. [Old Greg was rubbing the dog’s belly with his right hand. He looked up at Eli pathetically. ”I fucking hate dogs,” he sighed. Eli shrugged and continued reading.] Please forgive Etiyr’s misguided chivalry. He really can get masculine sometimes, for a purportedly genderless object. Still, he doesn’t understand how it feels to have certain… needs. I understand all too well. I think you do, too. Call me.
DEAR QUANTOS: Okay so I have this theory. You went back in time and had your family name changed to “Xodarap” and then convinced your parents to name you “Quantos” so you could have a cool-sounding time cop name when you became a time cop, didn’t you? I admire that kind of attention to detail. Anyway I’d like you to know that I would flux you. Hahahahahaha snort. Really? Really.
DEAR AMP: I was thinking about converting this Denny’s into a nightclub and I could put you to good use. I’ll have my people call your people.
DEAR ETINopeFine. You know my heart. Well, I’m out. Old Greg, tear this out and put it in the nice lady’s hands. ELI, CUT HIS HAND OFF Eli, darling. Etiyr is understandably emotional because DEMANICATE HIM there is simply no way that that’s a word I’m the typewriter here, I’ll decide what is or is not a word. Point. Anyway, cutting my man’s hand off is a STRICT contravention of Rule 1, so… try it at your own risk. Old Greg?
Eli looked at the typewriter lying on the floor and the morose-looking man and the happy-looking dog. As she admired this peaceful scene, she wondered where all the hateful feelings on the paper had come from, and where they had gone (probably, she concluded, out with the werewolf).
She looked down at her trombone. The blade was certainly sharp enough to cut through bone.
She looked up at Old Greg. He was quite handsome in a certain light, really.
“Old Greg?” she ventured.
Old Greg turned his head. ”Yeah?
”Come here.”