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+--- Thread: The Mondo Ruction 742216 (/showthread.php?tid=7167)
The Mondo Ruction 742216 - Ixcaliber - 04-23-2026
In an endless planeless spaceless place the Oddball continued its endless ceaseless pointless formless series of empty gestures and empty patterns. It was just a conglomeration of self and not self looping stringing through planes, an empty pluraity manifest as a single billiard ball in a scarf. Forever, it cycled, stuck in a smooth grove on the record player of the universe. Mondo Ructions piled up filling the endless possibility space, hogging all of the universe's memory. In the world beyond that touched by the endless series of battles things began to feel off, to feel artificial even in the most potent most real most vivid moments, robbed of their lustre, robbed of their reality.
It was beginning to be a problem.
The Oddball and the forever expanding possibility space that it sat at the centre of did not percieve, not itself, not the world around it or the results of its endless purposeless experiments. Any iota of self that clung to that anomaly of thought and thoughtlessness just completed its actions and did not percieve the burrowing strings of existence wrapped around its thoughts.
As always a selection of eight entities snatched up from throughout the whole of probability space stood in a rough circle looking at one another. Held in place by the most powerful force in the known universe: the author's unwillingness to expend the effort of having to think too hard. They stared at the billiard ball, perhaps one of nature's most incongruous shapes.
"We have taken you for a battle to the death." It said, though it might be more accurate to say that all the sounds that made up that sentence had just coincidentally have happened (causeless) in a coincidental sequence that made it almost sound like a sentence. It was unnervingly both intentional and unintentional and it made your skin crawl.
Eight contestants are introduced to one another, scattershot thoughts embedded carelessly in each other's minds.
The Ovipath, the creature from the vibeplane, the squirming formless shape that crystalizes and forms as it is experienced by other entities. A perception fish that half lives on a different framework of reality. Impossible to describe but if I had to I'd say all its limbs were worms and stop thinking about it for now.
Grey, the living supreme paragon of motorcycability. The shining ideal that all motorbikes were built to try to capture. She shines in the distance. You can see her. You love her from a distance. You build her in effigy. She is real, she is here and she is standing in front of you.
PROC13, the procedure rod. A strange shimmering fish in a whole rainbow of greys, born like most of its kind deep in the heart of the core of order. Their living thrumming heritage passed down through the generations holds them strictly to the platonic embodiment of law. PROC13 was a fanatic, a deep believer in the otherworldly force that is Obligation. Obligiation trails from them like aglae.
The Sparxle Chicks - Mariposa, Melinda, Magenta, Marissa and Magnolia. A girl band from downtown New Town. They are the best of friends and always seem to be going on adventures with one another. Every Friday at 5PM. In this weeks episode Magenta and Melinda will be staying overnight in their haunted Aunt Mildred's haunted mansion. Mariposa will be volunteering at the local hospital and she meets a cute new girl? Marissa and Magnolia will be recovering the Emperor's Blade with Magnolia's old old friend Michaela.
Stringbox - Slithering, string a hundred miles high. Moving all simultaneously but not together, entire bunches and strands gyrating, pulsating out of sync with the mass of bounded twine. It knows it exists only by virtue of its own body holding its thoughtform together.
Saint of Ideas - An angelform thoughtform that walks on the physical plane and is an intimidating icon of the pristine embodiment of an idea. Their existence, their very physicality shifting to match and mirror the thoughts of those around them. They preach about the virtues of mindfulness somehow despite the immbolization.
Gobbo - A little brown fuzzy ball of hair with enormous eyes. Gobbo was a close personal friend of Croc, the mythical hero of their species. Gobbo carries themselves with an air of someone who has been around and formed their opinions and decided never to care what anyone else ever thinks of them again. An embodiment of untempered id. They look like they would make a good merchandile plush that someone could sell of them.
Faraxetty Strigantonio - An artificial man, a straw man constructed out of hundreds of mounds of sodden wood. He moves with a stiffness, a hollowness that shows you he is little more than signifier, yet to be attached to a referent. On his face is drawn a simple, friendly face.
They are shown each other to each other and they are given the boilerpoint speech of why they are here. Seven rounds, seven locations, killing one another until there is only one left. It falls out of The Oddball's mouth as though it means something, as though it isn't a creeping rot outpopulating thought.
Reality ripples around them and Round One begins. They are in the Love Hotel. A tourist destination situated within the thoughtrealm of Love, a physical plane of such intoxicating, overwhelming love, that most who go there for longer than a couple of days call it a clogging, clinging suffocating kind of sensation.