Re: The $300,000 Fight-A-Thon! [Round One: Storage Park!]
08-25-2012, 08:15 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by Pharmacy.
Earlier
The dragon struggled violently in the lattice of plastic and rope. Limbs thrashing, teeth snapping, and there was this unmistakable smell of ozone in the air. She screeched and swore unpleasantly – understandably upset about the lack of independent movement. Yet, despite her best efforts, she still could not break free.
The freakishly human head of the beast swung to her captor. She was captured by a little girl. A LITTLE GIRL with rosy cheeks, a nice smile and a dress. It was a strange dress. At a glance, it looked like tiny nondescript daisies but at closer inspection, they were moving Mandelbrots. They were hypnotizing, like her adorableness and she was incredibly adorable and OH HOW THE CREATURE HATED HER.
“LITTLE GIRL,” the bestial visage snarled, wisp of glowing vapor seething through her teeth. Somewhere in her brain, the creature chided herself for falling into such an OBVIOUS TRAP set up by a LITTLE GIRL. UGH. “WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME.”
"Oh," the little girl just smiled. The gesture escalated her adorableness so much that somewhere in an distant universe, celestial seniors of a particular nursing home just spontaneously went daaaaaaawww and OH HOW THE CREATURED HATED THAT. “Something.”
“COULDN’T YOU BE A LITTLE MORE OBVIOUS I SWEAR YOU WILL PAY I SWEAR I WILL HAVE YOUR MRRF MFF MRRF” Guillemet suddenly found her mouth tastefully bounded by a powder-pink ribbon and had nothing more to say.
Now
“DAMMIT.”
The obscenity echoed infinitely – reverberating with the ceiling, the walls, and the many, many boxes in this plane of reality. Apparently sound resonates far in this storage room, a defiance of conventional physics and most definitely something of scientific importance. Not that Guillemet cared if her singular-word profanity travelled far of course; she was too busy doing personal anger management. The draconic school of hard knocks, if you may.
“GODDAMMIT.” A high-velocity tail crushed an innocent cardboard box, pulverizing the contents within – probably china from the sound of it. “GODDAMMIT.” An envelope-sized package impacted with the wall. The spilled contents were something that would cause remarkable venoconstriction in a man’s face. “GOD FUCKING DAMMIT.” Guillemet was very aware that she was using the same malediction over and over again, not really representative of her usual verbosity – or originality even, but she was SO angry. That was totally an excuse.
The therapy lasted approximately three minutes and did not help at all. Guillemet was left with a massacre of various containers, various junk she cared not to identify, and oh, a smoldering sort of embarrassment. Despite her showcase of acrimony and smoldering contempt for everything in general, she somehow, just somehow, got this niggling thought that she was not making a good impression on anyone in general.
With that epiphany, she slowly climbed to the top of the mess she made and placidly began to preen herself, ridding her spines of paper scraps, broken electronics, and the occasional incomprehensible skin-flick. She needed to calm down. And think. Channel all her negative feelings into something productive – at least that was what her former therapist’s advice is. She had not heard from him for a while. Probably because he’s dead.
Okay, there was this little girl (LITTLE GIRL). Disgustingly cute, bite-sized, a snack, but not important. Yes, she got her into this situation, but what was significantly more important that she was following somebody – just like in those movies. Somebody clearly more important that her. It was an educated guess. A short in the dark flimsily supported by the few movies she watched, but she had faith in it.
Who was that Boss? In fact, Guillemet was probably sure she had met him before. The past few minuteshad been a catatonic swarm of memories. She knew some man – babbling bits and pieces, about some very unimportant participants in some unimportant video. What was the video about? It was lost in the squabbles of the children, but she knew. She just vaguely knew who the man behind the scene was. What was his name anyway. Cooch? Couch?
Oh.
Guillemet let out an unholy screech as she vaulted up into the air. The miscellaneous containers rapidly smudged into blur as she collided violently with the ceiling with a mighty clang. Bits of dust and cobwebs floated down, gently placing themselves in the especially hard-to-reach spaces – a hell for any custodian or team of custodians lording over this place, but did Guillemet honestly care? With a swift beat of her wings (knocking over a few badminton rackets in the process), she torpedoed over the shelves, the furniture, whatever. She had a Coach to meet and take a bite out of. Coming to think of it, what he’d taste like. Well, she would soon know.
If she could get out of this place of course.
Earlier
The dragon struggled violently in the lattice of plastic and rope. Limbs thrashing, teeth snapping, and there was this unmistakable smell of ozone in the air. She screeched and swore unpleasantly – understandably upset about the lack of independent movement. Yet, despite her best efforts, she still could not break free.
The freakishly human head of the beast swung to her captor. She was captured by a little girl. A LITTLE GIRL with rosy cheeks, a nice smile and a dress. It was a strange dress. At a glance, it looked like tiny nondescript daisies but at closer inspection, they were moving Mandelbrots. They were hypnotizing, like her adorableness and she was incredibly adorable and OH HOW THE CREATURE HATED HER.
“LITTLE GIRL,” the bestial visage snarled, wisp of glowing vapor seething through her teeth. Somewhere in her brain, the creature chided herself for falling into such an OBVIOUS TRAP set up by a LITTLE GIRL. UGH. “WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME.”
"Oh," the little girl just smiled. The gesture escalated her adorableness so much that somewhere in an distant universe, celestial seniors of a particular nursing home just spontaneously went daaaaaaawww and OH HOW THE CREATURED HATED THAT. “Something.”
“COULDN’T YOU BE A LITTLE MORE OBVIOUS I SWEAR YOU WILL PAY I SWEAR I WILL HAVE YOUR MRRF MFF MRRF” Guillemet suddenly found her mouth tastefully bounded by a powder-pink ribbon and had nothing more to say.
Now
“DAMMIT.”
The obscenity echoed infinitely – reverberating with the ceiling, the walls, and the many, many boxes in this plane of reality. Apparently sound resonates far in this storage room, a defiance of conventional physics and most definitely something of scientific importance. Not that Guillemet cared if her singular-word profanity travelled far of course; she was too busy doing personal anger management. The draconic school of hard knocks, if you may.
“GODDAMMIT.” A high-velocity tail crushed an innocent cardboard box, pulverizing the contents within – probably china from the sound of it. “GODDAMMIT.” An envelope-sized package impacted with the wall. The spilled contents were something that would cause remarkable venoconstriction in a man’s face. “GOD FUCKING DAMMIT.” Guillemet was very aware that she was using the same malediction over and over again, not really representative of her usual verbosity – or originality even, but she was SO angry. That was totally an excuse.
The therapy lasted approximately three minutes and did not help at all. Guillemet was left with a massacre of various containers, various junk she cared not to identify, and oh, a smoldering sort of embarrassment. Despite her showcase of acrimony and smoldering contempt for everything in general, she somehow, just somehow, got this niggling thought that she was not making a good impression on anyone in general.
With that epiphany, she slowly climbed to the top of the mess she made and placidly began to preen herself, ridding her spines of paper scraps, broken electronics, and the occasional incomprehensible skin-flick. She needed to calm down. And think. Channel all her negative feelings into something productive – at least that was what her former therapist’s advice is. She had not heard from him for a while. Probably because he’s dead.
Okay, there was this little girl (LITTLE GIRL). Disgustingly cute, bite-sized, a snack, but not important. Yes, she got her into this situation, but what was significantly more important that she was following somebody – just like in those movies. Somebody clearly more important that her. It was an educated guess. A short in the dark flimsily supported by the few movies she watched, but she had faith in it.
Who was that Boss? In fact, Guillemet was probably sure she had met him before. The past few minuteshad been a catatonic swarm of memories. She knew some man – babbling bits and pieces, about some very unimportant participants in some unimportant video. What was the video about? It was lost in the squabbles of the children, but she knew. She just vaguely knew who the man behind the scene was. What was his name anyway. Cooch? Couch?
Oh.
Guillemet let out an unholy screech as she vaulted up into the air. The miscellaneous containers rapidly smudged into blur as she collided violently with the ceiling with a mighty clang. Bits of dust and cobwebs floated down, gently placing themselves in the especially hard-to-reach spaces – a hell for any custodian or team of custodians lording over this place, but did Guillemet honestly care? With a swift beat of her wings (knocking over a few badminton rackets in the process), she torpedoed over the shelves, the furniture, whatever. She had a Coach to meet and take a bite out of. Coming to think of it, what he’d taste like. Well, she would soon know.
If she could get out of this place of course.