battle of the genders: creative writing |
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The man was wearing camoflague pants, old smeakers, and a Slayer t-sirt. Grime crusted his skin, and his black hair hung in thick dreadlocks around his gaunt face, framing it like some ghastly Da Vinci sketch. The bum's cracked lips parted, revealing yellowed teeth and a pasty white tongue. Faintly, a wheeze escaped. "You...you ever go to eat a pork sausage, only to find there's hair growing all over it?" And he gave her a look that chills her to this very day. |
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murmurs filled the elevator. "shit, the boss needs this now!" "there goes my interview" etc etc etc. and suddenly, a young man materialized, taking up the remaining space in the elevator. |
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"You just sneezed all over my report! Bob's gonna fuckin' kill me! Who the hell do you work for! I'm gonna get your ass fired!" The young man stopped his tirade long enough to look the new man up and down. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet. quiet and frightened. "shit. man. How'd you get here?" he gulped. "oh. um. Nice gun. Please don't kill me? Bob's an asshole, anyhow." |
as the tears streamed down the woman's face so came the snot from her nose. she used the coat on her arm to wipe away both the tears and the snot. |
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Whaddaya MEAN, YOU'VE got Marlon Brando's eyes? FUCK! I have powers pinto beans can only DREAM of! |
The newcomer, Alys noticed, had strong chiseled features, Bryl-creamed hair, and a unfading, avuncular grin. A dark brown pipe, emitting some spicy odor definitely NOT tobacco, and certainly not pot either, was not so much clenched between his teeth, more so it adhered to them. "Alys," the stranger began. "It's time. The Yacatizmic forces are growing stronger and you are needed elsewhere." "B-b-but, I have an appointment with Bob! I'm needed on the 18th floor! I don't even know what you're talking about!" Alys burst out, still shocked by the uncoventional entrance of the stranger, who was dressed in a suit that was cut acording to fashion standards 50 years out of date. "That's right, Alys," said the stranger. "You DO have an appointment with 'Bob.' Come along." The stranger took her gently by the hand and they were enveloped in a soft green glow. The others in the elevator began to squeal nervously, and the glow grew stronger, until it overloaded the business people's already strained retinas. When they could see again, Alys and the stranger were gone. Alys blinked. She was suddenly soaked through with sweat, and a thousand different animal calls hit here from all directions. Gnarled tree trunks clawed their way to the sky, and broad leafed plants covered the ground. The air was almost liquid from the humidity, and the temperature must have been over 100 degrees. Oddly, the stranger seemed unaffected. "Wh-where are we?" stammered Alys. The Stranger turned and grinned even more intensely. "Welcome to Bolivia." |
"Wait, scratch that," he said, looking confused. "We seem to have ended up somewhere to the left of the Bolivian Dimension. Goddamnit. Every time this happens. They're going to fire me soon, I know it." The stranger was about to cry. This much was clear. "Um..." Large tears began to roll down the Stranger's face. He took to Palm Pilot and gazed at it sadly, before saying: "Well, I'm not really sure how to get out of here. There aren't any directions." Somewhere off in the distance, someone screamed. |
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"No," she said. The man knocked her cold and started to climb the ladder. |
Everything went dark. |
Jane pursed her lips. "She's utterly useless now," George said. "Destroy her." |
"Listen up, Georgie. Everything was going just fine until you insisted we run your 'teleporting man' subroutine." She paused a moment to regain some composure, then continued in a flat voice, "we've scragged *way* too many subjects already. The people who pay the bills are starting to get upset. God, if this failure rate gets to the press, we're screwed. So SHUT UP and put her back in. I think we can save her. I mean, god. Call it a dream, or an acid flashback; put some tidy little moral in, and then carry on." she paused, glaring down at him. She began to worry when she noticed that George's smirk had only grown. With a toothy grin, he pushed a button on the console, and the man in the Gucci suit appeared next to him. Gucci was grinning, too. |
"Smurfnwot hfwoiefn nqur weriwnbiw r wnrwirn nqeuqn;f wew jroiwnrqwnr qiwwqe; newinqeiowbe' hfoenoq. Js ninp asd wu ndoad ass idnsuw jane. Jusjum iejwnd qiwrn nqornalfhw bgeqwdn. Jut," he said. Gucci nodded. "Deriwerfn neiwehro?" Gucci nodded again. "Well, Jane, that just about sums it up. You're of the project, off the team, and if you talk, you're off the earth." "But..." "Unless, of course, you want to destroy the prisoner as ordered by sticking this..." he pulled out a four foot strap on out of his drawer..."up her ass." |
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here it is. |
The cleaning lady had a gleam in her eye, oh happy days are here again said the gleam. But no one noticed. George's stare moved from the strap, and was presently fixed on Gucci, and Gucci's beady little pink eyes stared hotly at Jane's expressionless and pale face. The contorted portrait artist, sitting quietly at a stainless steel easel hastily appearing in the corner of the now quiet and motionless room began to sketch in pastels the faces of the two of the three whose countenance had the beginning of a smirk. Jane wasn't concerned with the artist whom she didn't see at all, and certainly wasn't aware of the cleaning lady's sick thoughts. She was thinking, "What about Bob?" Of the least importance were the two protagonists, holding hands in some elevator in the universe. |