RE: The Grand OC! [CONTEST TWENTY: VICE!]
06-18-2014, 03:08 PM
(This post was last modified: 06-26-2014, 04:38 PM by ICan'tGiveCredit.)
Moniker: Vicycle.
Engendered Within: Evil
Race: Machine thing
Hue: A sinful, wine burgundy
Description: A strange, 2 wheeled machine with studded devil horns on the gears which scratch... and yet hedonistic faux-fur on the pedals. The bike is covered in white gold... no, it's too bright, gleaming in the sun. One thousand carat gold, there's no other way to describe it's quality. When I have tried to investigate further, its forces pulled me in and I almost never returned back again from that demonic joy ride. The water bottle screws seem perfectly capable of hosting a fine wine against the sleek metal. The hub is decorated with ornate pictures of people engaging in sexual acts that technically can't be done. The bike seems to balance itself, never falling. Replaces the need for a kickstand. No support required, self-sufficient and eager to do a devil's terrible bidding with you as its medium. There seems to be a voicebox on the brake hood which tells you of scandalous things, acts by the most wicked of them! The tires are made from 100% pure diamond wrapped in a nice, warm coat of human skin. Knives seem to jut out from the handlebars.
And they're detachable.
This is altogether, unsettling, yet attractive.
Biography: In the night, I hear the springs mocking me, angry that I have not rode upon it. We had only just bought it from a poor family who seemed to hold it quite dear, unable to sell it despite the unnecessary luxuries it presented. Surely, nourishment is of greater importance than panache!? It seemed like such a hideous thing when I look back 'pon it now. Why did my mother buy it? Why did she start smoking? Why did she spend long evenings in that garage?
I was merely a child back then, innocent, not knowing the difference between a good bike and an angry, hellish tricycle. And so, one day, I emerged from my bedroom with an inexplicable need to ride it. At such an age, how could a youth like myself manage such a feat? Leaving the comfort of my own home, my mother, my family for a vicious velocipede!
What happened in those four months, I could not recall. I had gained monetary assets exceeding 20 million, to a Swiss bank account which I am unable to ponder the password for... The news had reported at that same instance missing cash of that amount across multiple banks. Even Spain, an ocean away, had complained of missing money from its Treasury, the guards lacerated with tire tracks over their faces! Had I biked across the Atlantic? Had the bike cycled me across the ocean? One could not know which, for there are other matters which one such as myself would be thinking about. Like how I had torn down many roads on that contraption and left significant cracks in the sidewalk despite the fact that the thing which I had been riding upon was a tricycle. Which reminds me, it is now a bicycle. It had even emitted groaning sounds, like the hum of an engine for which it wanted to be grown upon it. How it had evolved while I had been riding upon it, I have nair the idea. But know this, even my skin had aged, and my physique had molded and shaped itself to the form of a modern Adonis! I also had multiple tattoos of... I'm not quite sure, really! Some are of the language of demons and others of terrible tragedies throughout history. Notable, one mutters religious blasphemies, the skin behind it gained vocal cords with which to mutter its strange protests against humanity. Sadly, the technology had not yet developed to remove the ink from my skin without scarring it terribly, although I did agree to have the talking, blasphemous one removed surgically. I had also left a long trail of dead bodies left in heart-wrenching positions. Bicycle tire tracks left in each crime scene. Other deeds had also been committed, too gruesome to describe. When the police had remanded me, I knew not what they were talking about! Accounts by witnesses were that it was a mere trike. Accounts by others were that it was a penny farthing, the spokes made with bloodied pennies. I could not respond, for I could barely form the words to describe what was running through my mind at that moment(some of the thoughts still lingered after being shot off of the bike by a man wielding a shotgun, and incurring no actual injury to myself) and what I had looked like by the end of it. I could not even come to terms with who I was at that point and they wanted a report? Foolhardy, all o' 'em. All I knew was that the infernal thing would never leave my sight and the police could not detain it without it trailing behind me once more.
So a provision was made. The local pastor showered me with crosses, read verses and sang hymns to me as I placed it in my garage, chained it, chained heavy cinderblocks to the cogs. All while resisting its obtuse desires for that which man was not meant to do! The bike seems to be in a different place from where I last left it. I would not be surprised if it left me altogether, with a will of its own.
And so it was, the next day, the bike was gone, leaving the cinderblocks and chains in heaps, like a pile of bones that a beast might pick its teeth with! It had also shed its human skin for the old man's, which it had taken in the night by unknown means.
Indeed, it needs a new coat with which to do splendid Battle. With other beings who cannot possibly match its prowess. Or its lustful urges to grip its handlebars, tear the knives off and go on a murdering spree, slashing people on the sidewalk and side streets while still managing to balance one's self on the bike seat, miraculously. Where it went? No one knows, its bike tracks seemed to have fade out of existence, almost an invisible force pedaling it someplace else! To some other world even!
Powers: Upon sight of it, a want for it. Upon laying your hands upon it, a want to ride upon it. Overpowering, as if there is a horrendous stench and riding upon it would leave that stench behind. Upon riding upon it however... one wishes to commit terrible crimes incomprehensible to all but the insane. Seems to evoke a want, greed, everything, and everything terrible. Why would one even contemplate the doing of such things? Intense boredom? Innate immorality? A failed sense of belonging with the lot of us? All of these things can be resolved, but don't, don't resort to the bloody Vicycle!
Engendered Within: Evil
Race: Machine thing
Hue: A sinful, wine burgundy
Description: A strange, 2 wheeled machine with studded devil horns on the gears which scratch... and yet hedonistic faux-fur on the pedals. The bike is covered in white gold... no, it's too bright, gleaming in the sun. One thousand carat gold, there's no other way to describe it's quality. When I have tried to investigate further, its forces pulled me in and I almost never returned back again from that demonic joy ride. The water bottle screws seem perfectly capable of hosting a fine wine against the sleek metal. The hub is decorated with ornate pictures of people engaging in sexual acts that technically can't be done. The bike seems to balance itself, never falling. Replaces the need for a kickstand. No support required, self-sufficient and eager to do a devil's terrible bidding with you as its medium. There seems to be a voicebox on the brake hood which tells you of scandalous things, acts by the most wicked of them! The tires are made from 100% pure diamond wrapped in a nice, warm coat of human skin. Knives seem to jut out from the handlebars.
And they're detachable.
This is altogether, unsettling, yet attractive.
Biography: In the night, I hear the springs mocking me, angry that I have not rode upon it. We had only just bought it from a poor family who seemed to hold it quite dear, unable to sell it despite the unnecessary luxuries it presented. Surely, nourishment is of greater importance than panache!? It seemed like such a hideous thing when I look back 'pon it now. Why did my mother buy it? Why did she start smoking? Why did she spend long evenings in that garage?
I was merely a child back then, innocent, not knowing the difference between a good bike and an angry, hellish tricycle. And so, one day, I emerged from my bedroom with an inexplicable need to ride it. At such an age, how could a youth like myself manage such a feat? Leaving the comfort of my own home, my mother, my family for a vicious velocipede!
What happened in those four months, I could not recall. I had gained monetary assets exceeding 20 million, to a Swiss bank account which I am unable to ponder the password for... The news had reported at that same instance missing cash of that amount across multiple banks. Even Spain, an ocean away, had complained of missing money from its Treasury, the guards lacerated with tire tracks over their faces! Had I biked across the Atlantic? Had the bike cycled me across the ocean? One could not know which, for there are other matters which one such as myself would be thinking about. Like how I had torn down many roads on that contraption and left significant cracks in the sidewalk despite the fact that the thing which I had been riding upon was a tricycle. Which reminds me, it is now a bicycle. It had even emitted groaning sounds, like the hum of an engine for which it wanted to be grown upon it. How it had evolved while I had been riding upon it, I have nair the idea. But know this, even my skin had aged, and my physique had molded and shaped itself to the form of a modern Adonis! I also had multiple tattoos of... I'm not quite sure, really! Some are of the language of demons and others of terrible tragedies throughout history. Notable, one mutters religious blasphemies, the skin behind it gained vocal cords with which to mutter its strange protests against humanity. Sadly, the technology had not yet developed to remove the ink from my skin without scarring it terribly, although I did agree to have the talking, blasphemous one removed surgically. I had also left a long trail of dead bodies left in heart-wrenching positions. Bicycle tire tracks left in each crime scene. Other deeds had also been committed, too gruesome to describe. When the police had remanded me, I knew not what they were talking about! Accounts by witnesses were that it was a mere trike. Accounts by others were that it was a penny farthing, the spokes made with bloodied pennies. I could not respond, for I could barely form the words to describe what was running through my mind at that moment(some of the thoughts still lingered after being shot off of the bike by a man wielding a shotgun, and incurring no actual injury to myself) and what I had looked like by the end of it. I could not even come to terms with who I was at that point and they wanted a report? Foolhardy, all o' 'em. All I knew was that the infernal thing would never leave my sight and the police could not detain it without it trailing behind me once more.
So a provision was made. The local pastor showered me with crosses, read verses and sang hymns to me as I placed it in my garage, chained it, chained heavy cinderblocks to the cogs. All while resisting its obtuse desires for that which man was not meant to do! The bike seems to be in a different place from where I last left it. I would not be surprised if it left me altogether, with a will of its own.
And so it was, the next day, the bike was gone, leaving the cinderblocks and chains in heaps, like a pile of bones that a beast might pick its teeth with! It had also shed its human skin for the old man's, which it had taken in the night by unknown means.
Indeed, it needs a new coat with which to do splendid Battle. With other beings who cannot possibly match its prowess. Or its lustful urges to grip its handlebars, tear the knives off and go on a murdering spree, slashing people on the sidewalk and side streets while still managing to balance one's self on the bike seat, miraculously. Where it went? No one knows, its bike tracks seemed to have fade out of existence, almost an invisible force pedaling it someplace else! To some other world even!
Powers: Upon sight of it, a want for it. Upon laying your hands upon it, a want to ride upon it. Overpowering, as if there is a horrendous stench and riding upon it would leave that stench behind. Upon riding upon it however... one wishes to commit terrible crimes incomprehensible to all but the insane. Seems to evoke a want, greed, everything, and everything terrible. Why would one even contemplate the doing of such things? Intense boredom? Innate immorality? A failed sense of belonging with the lot of us? All of these things can be resolved, but don't, don't resort to the bloody Vicycle!