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- Dec 27, 2006
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So, uh, I have never done writing before so I thought I would try it out. This is a simple interlude of some sorts I put together in a "write-as-you-go" kind of way.
Decent enough to build on?
An old steam-powered convertible is seen lane splitting through the heavy highway smog to get ahead of the slow trafic on 5th. This is an unusual scene, ever since congress passed the Sack Tap act and took away people's right to in any way inconvenience or dismay other people, in promise that any violations will result in genital... well, mutilation. With a power-operated toothed edge tool--
"They do what with a buzzsaw?!"
Through the windshield we see a peculiar looking dude driving the vessel. His two cubic heads plugged into two separate wired cabinets, each head equipped with a panlight flashing in sequential vibrant colors. The wires from each cabinet form two vice-like hands on either side and a number of tentacles reaching down to the pedals. Through the dim jazz music pounding from the vintage speakers, and the thick smoke from a Don Rubosto cigar, we hear a crass but soothing voice.
"I hear they don't even sedate you or nothing. Some sort of Western courtesy they called it."
Multz, head number one, jauntily puts out his cigar on the brand new dashboard and chucks it out the window.
"Power up the rusty old thing and slowly pull out the unmentionables, drawing closer... and closer... and..."
"Jesus Christ Multz, I could do without the color commentary." Tugnutt, head number two, turns around, looking slightly affronted. His face covered in blazing exema, like some one spilt dark roast all over his face. The kind where you just wish you could pull out a planer and phase it all out. Tuggnutt scratches his left cheek nervously.
"Apply some fucking ointment already." Multz chuckles with a smirk more smug than a liberal who just dipped his whole hot dog in a puddle of ketchup.
Begrudgingly, Tugnutt snorts and overtakes another innercity dumper. "Some pretty high stakes here. We are basically risking hellish pain, not to mention the ability to ever be able to reproduce, and quite possibly, death, to prove a point?"
"Only way to prove a point."
Decent enough to build on?
Untitled W.I.P.
An old steam-powered convertible is seen lane splitting through the heavy highway smog to get ahead of the slow trafic on 5th. This is an unusual scene, ever since congress passed the Sack Tap act and took away people's right to in any way inconvenience or dismay other people, in promise that any violations will result in genital... well, mutilation. With a power-operated toothed edge tool--
"They do what with a buzzsaw?!"
Through the windshield we see a peculiar looking dude driving the vessel. His two cubic heads plugged into two separate wired cabinets, each head equipped with a panlight flashing in sequential vibrant colors. The wires from each cabinet form two vice-like hands on either side and a number of tentacles reaching down to the pedals. Through the dim jazz music pounding from the vintage speakers, and the thick smoke from a Don Rubosto cigar, we hear a crass but soothing voice.
"I hear they don't even sedate you or nothing. Some sort of Western courtesy they called it."
Multz, head number one, jauntily puts out his cigar on the brand new dashboard and chucks it out the window.
"Power up the rusty old thing and slowly pull out the unmentionables, drawing closer... and closer... and..."
"Jesus Christ Multz, I could do without the color commentary." Tugnutt, head number two, turns around, looking slightly affronted. His face covered in blazing exema, like some one spilt dark roast all over his face. The kind where you just wish you could pull out a planer and phase it all out. Tuggnutt scratches his left cheek nervously.
"Apply some fucking ointment already." Multz chuckles with a smirk more smug than a liberal who just dipped his whole hot dog in a puddle of ketchup.
Begrudgingly, Tugnutt snorts and overtakes another innercity dumper. "Some pretty high stakes here. We are basically risking hellish pain, not to mention the ability to ever be able to reproduce, and quite possibly, death, to prove a point?"
"Only way to prove a point."
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