RE: Malky-Grand 131121125 [Round 1: Jelly Citadel]
04-28-2012, 10:10 AM
(This post was last modified: 04-28-2012, 02:03 PM by Pharmacy.)
Selavy Rrose wondered why the sky was full of candy.
Holy shit, the sky was full of candy. The trash sculptor attempted to convince himself the duct tape was cutting off circulation in his head again, but even with his self-delusionary antics and the many siblings in his head (jesus, they are asking for more booster packs; AT THIS REALLY INCONVEINENT MOMENT, selfish little bastards), the truth was absolute. Christ, the sky was like the goddamn Halloween sale.
Selavy's lower left eyelid twitched violently at the floating jolly ranchers, Turkish delights, and rosy ribbons of corn-syrup around him. Judging from the light (is the sky above made of candy? Or of vegetables? OR OF BACON? TAKE YOUR PICK, DEAR READERS) shimmering infinitely above him, any hope of swimming to the surface - thus escape - was ungodly impossible - or at least inhumanly difficult. Why was there candy here? How is he breathing in all this sugary shit? Nothing was making sense at all, screamed Selavy (hypocritically ignorant of his own lack of sense)!
The volcano that is the anthropomorphic duck's anger erupted into a childish tantrum. In his fitful rage, Selavy began to do a tawdry tango, which caused him to spill his trash. Seeing his precious garbage joining the current of confections at an unreachable distance caused the ill-tempered duck to grow even more explosively incandescent. While indignantly convulsing, Selavy reached an arbitrary conclusion: this was an unnatural situation. If that situation was unnatural, the situation was someone's fault.
And that someone had to die.
At this epiphany, the sculptor of the long-gone Hobbyhorse was determined to do something. Breathing heavily through his teeth (does he even have any teeth?), Selavy rummaged through his sack, cursing at the serrated can lids and glass shards that bit at his fingers (disclaimer: the writer is not an expert of fictional duck anatomy). Finally, his perseverance paid off - clutched within his bleeding graspers was his murdering weapon.
The weapon itself was a beautiful specimen of age and function - her (yes, it was a she, you cad; you cannot persuade the Great Selavy either way) silver was tarnished beautifully despite the food, the dirt, the god-knows-what crust obscuring her shape. She was also a fork -a very blunt one with her prongs all over the place. The tableware utensil was perfect - just for him.
Lovingly touching the remaining shining parts of the fork, Selavy let out a sly chuckle - fully confident the almost-useless silverware was perfect for ill-equipped act of murder he planned in advance. Now he had the tool, and he had a plan, it was time to take some action. Wielding the fork like a knife, Selavy took up the trash and was determined to search for the perpetrator of this mess so he may end their life.
But how should he start?
In the distance, Selavy heard a faint feminine "Party! Party!"
The repetition of the word sparked his anger once again - and his suspicion. Perhaps, this was the culprit? Who was she anyway? The duck sculptor furrowed his brow. She sounded annoying - so she shall give his answers - AT FORK'S END.
So Selavy went voice-wards.
Holy shit, the sky was full of candy. The trash sculptor attempted to convince himself the duct tape was cutting off circulation in his head again, but even with his self-delusionary antics and the many siblings in his head (jesus, they are asking for more booster packs; AT THIS REALLY INCONVEINENT MOMENT, selfish little bastards), the truth was absolute. Christ, the sky was like the goddamn Halloween sale.
Selavy's lower left eyelid twitched violently at the floating jolly ranchers, Turkish delights, and rosy ribbons of corn-syrup around him. Judging from the light (is the sky above made of candy? Or of vegetables? OR OF BACON? TAKE YOUR PICK, DEAR READERS) shimmering infinitely above him, any hope of swimming to the surface - thus escape - was ungodly impossible - or at least inhumanly difficult. Why was there candy here? How is he breathing in all this sugary shit? Nothing was making sense at all, screamed Selavy (hypocritically ignorant of his own lack of sense)!
The volcano that is the anthropomorphic duck's anger erupted into a childish tantrum. In his fitful rage, Selavy began to do a tawdry tango, which caused him to spill his trash. Seeing his precious garbage joining the current of confections at an unreachable distance caused the ill-tempered duck to grow even more explosively incandescent. While indignantly convulsing, Selavy reached an arbitrary conclusion: this was an unnatural situation. If that situation was unnatural, the situation was someone's fault.
And that someone had to die.
At this epiphany, the sculptor of the long-gone Hobbyhorse was determined to do something. Breathing heavily through his teeth (does he even have any teeth?), Selavy rummaged through his sack, cursing at the serrated can lids and glass shards that bit at his fingers (disclaimer: the writer is not an expert of fictional duck anatomy). Finally, his perseverance paid off - clutched within his bleeding graspers was his murdering weapon.
The weapon itself was a beautiful specimen of age and function - her (yes, it was a she, you cad; you cannot persuade the Great Selavy either way) silver was tarnished beautifully despite the food, the dirt, the god-knows-what crust obscuring her shape. She was also a fork -a very blunt one with her prongs all over the place. The tableware utensil was perfect - just for him.
Lovingly touching the remaining shining parts of the fork, Selavy let out a sly chuckle - fully confident the almost-useless silverware was perfect for ill-equipped act of murder he planned in advance. Now he had the tool, and he had a plan, it was time to take some action. Wielding the fork like a knife, Selavy took up the trash and was determined to search for the perpetrator of this mess so he may end their life.
But how should he start?
In the distance, Selavy heard a faint feminine "Party! Party!"
The repetition of the word sparked his anger once again - and his suspicion. Perhaps, this was the culprit? Who was she anyway? The duck sculptor furrowed his brow. She sounded annoying - so she shall give his answers - AT FORK'S END.
So Selavy went voice-wards.