FortySeven
(?)Community Member
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- Posted: Sun, 19 Mar 2006 08:01:31 +0000
DARE
The Mayor's office was a little darker than usual, but its fool was ever-active inside it. Lacking sleep from all the midnight cavorting, Mr Retractable Slip was ready to eviscerate everyone in his path, starting, illogically, with himself. His knife was spinning gracefully on his fingers, but the occasional jerk of a gloved hand gave away signs of holistic fatigue. The Mayor stood before him in a mixture of pose and poise.
"Mr Slip, let me tell you this,
If you can't hear, just read my lips.
The Accordion of Discord
Must be put to the sword.
Or else I'll slit my wrists."
The Mayor's body issued a booty shake which would melt men's hearts, were he not fifty-something, wigged and certifiably male. The wrinkled fingers held up important dossiers in a Jazz-hands maneuver, which Mr Slip snatched at. It was a musical composition sheet, with words splitting with the notes. He scanned past the choruses and skipped to the last stazas.
Ob-jective one kill the wiel-der of the ac-cor-di-on.
Ob-jective two run the ac-cor-di-on through.
The other document was a picture of Dirge City's metalworking commune. Easily reachable via public transport. The red-eyed mercenary bade the mayor goodbye and left the nutter tapdancing on his revolving chair.
The day was a musical day. The Accordion of Discord echoed through the voices of the townsfolk possessed by the moxious, intoxicating blend of polka and breakbeat. People twirled into the bus, stating their destination in blank verse and paying the driver. Lawyers and office-dwellers marched out and immediately assumed the Robot stance, then slid away to another dreary workday.
Mr Slip paid the driver, then assumed the rear-most seat. People turned to look at him as he passed, then bobbed their heads in perfect unison as the bus' rhythmic engine ululations issued forth. They were wearing yellow hard-hats and singlet shirts, every one of them. He was clearly in the right bus. By the time he got off, Mr Slip had been treated to an impromptu beatbox orchestral, two a capellas and an ode to life in the metal-working commune, complete with harmonica and ambient vocals.
He lost all respect for human life.
Mr Slip stepped out onto a gravel patch a short distance from the commune proper. Pervasive and persuasive beats pressed upon his clothes in a highly unusual way. He trudged forth, the workshops and warehouses growing wider with every step.
----
Truth: Why doesn't your character like to fight?
Dare: Wax lyrical on every inch of motion and emotion of a pimpslap.
The Mayor's office was a little darker than usual, but its fool was ever-active inside it. Lacking sleep from all the midnight cavorting, Mr Retractable Slip was ready to eviscerate everyone in his path, starting, illogically, with himself. His knife was spinning gracefully on his fingers, but the occasional jerk of a gloved hand gave away signs of holistic fatigue. The Mayor stood before him in a mixture of pose and poise.
"Mr Slip, let me tell you this,
If you can't hear, just read my lips.
The Accordion of Discord
Must be put to the sword.
Or else I'll slit my wrists."
The Mayor's body issued a booty shake which would melt men's hearts, were he not fifty-something, wigged and certifiably male. The wrinkled fingers held up important dossiers in a Jazz-hands maneuver, which Mr Slip snatched at. It was a musical composition sheet, with words splitting with the notes. He scanned past the choruses and skipped to the last stazas.
Ob-jective one kill the wiel-der of the ac-cor-di-on.
Ob-jective two run the ac-cor-di-on through.
The other document was a picture of Dirge City's metalworking commune. Easily reachable via public transport. The red-eyed mercenary bade the mayor goodbye and left the nutter tapdancing on his revolving chair.
The day was a musical day. The Accordion of Discord echoed through the voices of the townsfolk possessed by the moxious, intoxicating blend of polka and breakbeat. People twirled into the bus, stating their destination in blank verse and paying the driver. Lawyers and office-dwellers marched out and immediately assumed the Robot stance, then slid away to another dreary workday.
Mr Slip paid the driver, then assumed the rear-most seat. People turned to look at him as he passed, then bobbed their heads in perfect unison as the bus' rhythmic engine ululations issued forth. They were wearing yellow hard-hats and singlet shirts, every one of them. He was clearly in the right bus. By the time he got off, Mr Slip had been treated to an impromptu beatbox orchestral, two a capellas and an ode to life in the metal-working commune, complete with harmonica and ambient vocals.
He lost all respect for human life.
Mr Slip stepped out onto a gravel patch a short distance from the commune proper. Pervasive and persuasive beats pressed upon his clothes in a highly unusual way. He trudged forth, the workshops and warehouses growing wider with every step.
----
Truth: Why doesn't your character like to fight?
Dare: Wax lyrical on every inch of motion and emotion of a pimpslap.