|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 Posted: Tue Dec 29, 2009 3:10 pm
Whud.
Whud.
Whud.
Whud.
Whud.
Then a momentary pause while a sweaty hand ground the side of the black-suited man's face into a spot on the wall that looked like someone had taken a ball-peen hammer to the bricks.
"¿Está ******** if I know that you c**-soaked t**t. ********' give the horsedoucher another fer good ******** dipshit. Now take your dibs on his goddamn s**t."
"Quiero que los calcetines de fantasía."
"Monkeyrapin' CHRIST you're one sick ********, you know that?"
"Se mantendrán los dedos calientes. Me gusta."
"Don't ********' want to hear it, asswipe. Just take the shitty things."
Jasper would immediately be turned upside-down and hung by his ankles as the lucha tried to pry his boots off.
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Dec 29, 2009 10:52 pm
The man's boots... were a disappointment! Little more than reinforced rubberized soles attatched to the essential 'booties' of that suit...
Though with a thick 'Shhhhhhhhhhck' that combat knife would slide free from it's sheath, zipping towards the ground.... hilt first!? Indeed, the weapon was weighted differently, and with the male upside down? Right into a waiting hand.
Simple upward motion was all it took, as the male sought to exact vengance for the throbbing migraine, dual black eyes, as well as undoubtedly a few loose teeth...
All of the blade would quickly seek to sink behind the luchador's testicles, wedging hilt deep in the mexican's taint.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Thu Dec 31, 2009 7:32 pm
Jasper would hit the pavement head-first. He could keep his goddamn socks. Meanwhile, Jakob was halfway through the process of lighting a cigar.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat Jan 02, 2010 2:08 am
The resilient ******** would do nothing to stop the undoubtedly septic blood that would splash over that mask and suit, free hand squirreling away quickly to bring up that earlier masterkey rifle, painlessly pulling the trigger in a wide arc that would spray first Jakob's face with fully automatic fire, before crossing over to tear the Luchador's shoulder on down to his pained cajones.
If successful in cleaning off the scavengers, the male would rise, cursing behind the mask as he tugged it upward and back, allowing it to flop against his backpack... Little more than flex-polymer and plates, really, except for the front end.
"And a bit of tradition for you, mi hombre... I wish we could have dueled as we should have..." He'd rumble, lowering down to unmask the luchador... And in the same bend, he'd fetch jakob's half lit cigar, stuffing it into his jaw and grinding it, pressing loose teeth more firmly back in their sockets.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat Jan 02, 2010 7:37 pm
It seemed that their luck had run out. For a group of scavengers they had come far in the world... relatively speaking. Thanks to thinking things through and working as a team they were able to keep the undead off of their backs and beat out other scavengers for rights to the juiciest goods. One mistake, getting a little ahead of themselves, put a stop to their reign over the ruins.
Jasper wasn't dead and now... well, now their positions had reversed.
No more Spanish was spoken in the alley, nor were any obscenities. When the gunfire was over the only words left spoken were Jasper's own complaints about the job he had been given.
Hopefully Evan White would like the prizes being brought home.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri Jan 15, 2010 1:38 am
"******** s**t, that was a grind..." He'd pause next to the doorway of the building they had been holed up in, sliding one hand up to pull the cigar from his lips, before running the other hand over his youthful, yet brutally beaten face... Yet even now the young male seemed to have stopped bleeding, the blackened eyes settled quite calmly into a murky sunset of purples and pale blues, and that charming, s**t-eating grin? As perfect as always!
"********' hate scum jobs like this.." He'd rumble, kicking the door open in agitation before trudging in, one hand reaching into his satchel to fetch... Glowsticks! These would be cracked in one swift smack against the doorway, before being lofted and shook vigorously while he peered about...
Much to his glee, the very thing he had been looking for was present. Computers! Indeed, most of them appeared to be civilian cases, plastered with stickers, character, and the personality of their individual owners, but at the same time it made it easy to seperate business computers, sterile, untouched, lacking in personal touches.
Approaching these with a finality of the end of a job, the male would unclasp the backpack from his back, settling it carefully on the floorboards and peering down at zippered pockets along the side... Finding a proper one, he'd undo the flap with a tug, causing cables to spill out and with little hesitation, he'd begin dismantling the cases, procuring the hardrives, and stacking them neatly.
"Zero, seperate your link with RI's Net. I want to keep my gambling chips in a nice neat pile." He'd murmur, making no indication when the floppy, limp mask behind him murmured a half hearted, muffled chirp of confirmation. Once that was done, he'd begin hooking zero into the individual hard-drives, downloading the information stored there-in almost immediately as the plugs were secured properly.
With that done, he'd loot a bit more, wafting glow-sticks until he found more suitable light-sources, lighting candles, lanterns, and even a halogen lamp, which he would pick up and carry in one hand.
A trio of brief cases would be paused over, again carrying that same impersonal, sterile feel that the man simply picked up on, of something without true merit or sentimental treatment... And procuring that knife, and peering at it in the fresh light with the disdain at what half-covered the blade, he'd wipe it clean on a few nearby rags, before popping the latches of the top-most case. Simple scientific samples were arranged neatly on one side, and on the other an orderly stack of folders with papers within, assigned to the various samples and explaining scientific jumbo-gumbo, sample numbers, logs of said samples...
"Ugh, paper. I hate paper. I never work with paper."
He'd rumble, closing the case and securing the three together, before carrying them to the doorway and setting them down to be picked up on exit. Moving back over, he'd detatch the hard-drives, and reattatch the cables to the remaining set. Taking the first batch off to one of the nearby windows, where he'd set them down neatly in a row, he would procure a bottle from his belt, proceeding to douse the drives in a thick, heady-smelling liquid.
"Only work with plastic. And even then, sometimes it's gotta go." He'd murmur, striking a match and lighting the drives on fire promptly. The hue was a nice, bright blue, and within moments the hard-drives would find themselves slagging, their contents truly ruined.
Once the computer in the satchel was done with the final batch, the ritual would be repeated and the male would collect his things, as well as the brief-cases, and exit the city post-haste without further problems!
Back to RI.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat Mar 06, 2010 10:28 pm
Dry, poorly-pitched whistling would echo down the empty street beset on all sides by the crumbling husks of ex-buildings. This city had been hollowed out by a war against the undead; an army of walking corpses that had spread their unliving aspect of the whole of the city. What was left was civilization's corpse abandoned and rotten to be picked at by the carrion eaters, riddled with parasites and infestations of looters, criminals, and homesteaders like lice crawling over a still-warm body. Latent, veteran undead wandered the ruins seeking to finish their job with simple unknowing programming.
It wasn't a city any longer. Just another ecosystem. Prey and predators worn down to a natural balance. Herds of men flocked through untended streets for what they needed to eek out an existence here. Ragged bands of undead coordinated only by a mutual hunger chased and stalked, eating the slowest and the least capable, culling the survivors down to the most able. All that would remain would be the smartest, strongest, most-well armed survivors.
And the hungriest of the ghouls. This wasn't a natural food chain. The living couldn't eat the undead. The living aged and hungered while ghouls remained timeless. The undead didn't even need food. They simply hunted.
Every minute of every day.
For every death there would be another ghoul. Waiting. Watching. Ever-present to take advantage of the smallest mistake. Eventually it would cease to be a contest between living and dead. Westfall would be the arena of the aging against time itself. Time would make bodies of them all, but only the undead would persist.
Two bare and filthy feet and a rustic spade tip would stop in the center of an intersection. Slowly bleeding through scrapes and cuts accumulated through the trek over broken masonry and mangled metal the feet's owner was completely indifferent to the harshness of his journey. He didn't dress to fit the elements or carry supplies to ward away the locals. Pants worn through the legs that barely reached passed the knees, hanging tatters where sleeves should have been on the shirt, a vest with gaping holes torn open. Skin like paper filthy enough to have been dragged through the city's debris twice over, hair long and black, caked into dreadlocks that might not have ever been washed.
A spill of trash fell across the asphalt of the intersection in the short space before those bare feet. Hardly remarkable against the comparative disaster in all directions. The litter would consist of random objects like bottle caps, small bent coins, shards of colored glass, shiny bits of glazed ceramic, and even bones and teeth. Which could, by appearance, be human.
The man would look down and consider this random handful of garbage he threw to the ground with a muted nod to himself. Nudging an upside-down bottle cap with a calloused toe he read this scatterplot of trash as if it held some significance, like a kind of homeless fortune teller. A passing shadow would draw his attention upward. Squinting his eyes against the light of day he'd see nothing but sky and the shadow would retreat.
Tiring of the scenery, the trespasser would continue on. Walking through the broken glasses and semi-sharp litter of his own doing without a second thought. That lazy tune would pick back up and rebound and echo through dusty, mostly empty buildings. Slowly walking down the derelict streets the man would build a wake of shambling corpses, following near-aimlessly blocks behind in a rotting cloud.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sun Mar 07, 2010 9:38 pm
The sound of a motorcycle would steadily rise in the distance, gaining ground against a barren wasteland. The older man hadn't been to this place before and was fairly warned that he should stay away. Not heeding this warning, Quinn would press on out of sheer curiosity more than anything.
Approaching the city proper, he became aware of the destruction that had been wrought on the city, quite obviously. Slowing the bike to a crawl, he anxiously pulled one of his rifles from a side slot, flipping the visor up on his helmet.
"Well.
"Hot damn," he muttered to himself, watching around at what looked like the aftermath of a nuclear holocaust.
Reaching down near the engine, he pulled a thermos of freshly brewed coffee out and sipped it. The newest edition to this bike was the one he took the most pride in. Only the best when you're worth it!
A small grim managed to make it's way across his face, that it until he heard a sound from an alley. Placing the thermos down into the slot it belonged, he lifted the rifle and slotted it against his windshield in a little divot that was made just to hold the gun. The bike roared forward a little, and Quinn made sure he wasn't being followed before continuing forward.
ZOMBAY AY AY AY.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sun Mar 07, 2010 10:04 pm
Tombs stopped a block away, in another intersection. Rifling through debris and piles of broken buildings. Levering a rather sizeable piece of cement of the ground with the haft of a shovel. With that several-hundred pound slab off the ground enough for Tombs to reach under, he could fish out his prize.
Almost.
All that came out was an arm. Most of one. From the elbow down. It looked like it was been under the block for ages. And it had been. All the flesh had rotted away and what remained was bones rot-slick black with bits of equally-rotted cloth stuck in the decomposing fluid.
"Hmmmmph."
The slab fell back to it's resting place with a clatter that kicked up a waist-high cloud of white dust. Tombs swung the arm swiftly downward to cast off as much of the looser muck off the limb as possible.
He'd continue his usual lumbering pace up and over a small hill of broken bricks and masonry that was spilled into the intersection from where a building had been standing on the corner. Reaching back he'd stuff his plundered new arm into a sack he wore tied across his back. Whistling all while he went.
Slim pickin's, mostly.
Small, black shadows of figures stayed in the distance in every direction from the elderly fellow, blocks away. Slowly lumbering forward to follow the sound of his whistling tune. Something like a piper and rats, but with more dead bodies.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Mon Mar 08, 2010 6:49 am
At first Quinn thought that some ghouls were walking in his direction, which technically they were. Then he realized that there was a...whistling sound?
What the fack?
He took off his helmet for a moment and scratched his head, noticing a set direction that some of these ghouls were going in, which was distinctly towards that sound.
Just as quickly as he had began pondering, however, the hair on his neck stood up and he spun his torso around to see a ghoul leaping. He quickly ducked down from his full posture, letting the creature go over him, then proceeded to withdraw and fire a pistol at his right side. Creature distracted, he kicked the bike on and got his s**t OUTTA THAR.
On his way in some random direction, he holstered the pistol and proceeded to replace the helmet on his head.
"Sweet zombie Jesus!"
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Mon Mar 08, 2010 7:05 am
The smoke from the dark cherry cigar she had clenched between her teeth curled around her face, settling over her shoulders. Kiera had been wandering for awhile, away from the living and towards the dead. Her brethren might enjoy a livelier palate, but she had never been all that picky. It was harder to exert herself when she ran with the pack, easier now that she had managed to separate herself from them.
The level of decay and destruction here had drawn her. She had thought that she would find another pool of creation from the parts of other Nothing's. In which case there would be more of what she had been roaming around, mindless creatures that destroyed each other as much as anything else that moved. Or could be eaten.
She heard a bike fire up, her white pupils darting to one side to catch the movement. The undead were active here. She plucked the cigar from her teeth, she'd let them get pointed again. No need to pretend to be human around here, everything that wasn't dead was something that would be eaten or chased. It was the perfect place for her.
She followed along behind the bike, wondering where he was going in such a hurry. There were a lot of ghouls around, but they were distracted by some loud whistling noise. Unless they were starving, and from the fleshy looks of them they were well fed, they wouldn't be paying any attention to them until they did something to draw attention to themselves.
"Where are you off to?" she mumbled under her breath, already determined to find out.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Reply
