Saturday, 24 December 2011

Wedding gift. ^^

"Octa, mate, we are paying for everything."

"Guys, there's no nee-"

"It's your stag party, we are paying."

Octaboona Ambrosius sighed slightly, but then smiled. "Alright then. But tell me where we're going?"

Niall, Hellboy, Reg, Chan, and Pyro all attempted to keep their faces straight. Gep had a grin plastered across his face like nothing anyone had ever seen. He was bad at pokerfaces.


"Remind me again why we have to go to a strip club?"

"It's traditional," said Hellboy.

Everyone looked at each other. Nobody seemed especially comfortable with the idea. And thus the game of "no-you-go-in-first" was born.

Eventually, after many games of rock-paper-scissors, Gep had to walk in. Before anyone even had the chance to walk in after him, he came flying out of the door again, and a tall woman poked her head out.

"No under eighteens!"

Niall clapped his hands together, looking relieved. "Well, men, it appears we cannot get into this fine establishment. Shame shame, let's do something else."

But hellboy was not to be deterred, taking his phone from his pocket, dialling a number, and clapping it to his ear. "Hello, Quinn? Yeah, we need to borrow your fake moustaches."

Cut to afterwards, paintball.

The paintballs hit hard, and they hit often.

Having an odd number of people meant that teams didn't work out well, so they went for a free-for-all.

There was a generally accepted rule that you shot mostly Octa, but tried not to inflict too much pain.
Hellboy just shot everyone, he was like a bloody berserker.

As such, it was him that the ambush hit first. If you are being accosted by paintballs, it is usually best not to stand on the top of a mound of dirt and wave your arms. It is also probably best not to scream "FUS RO DAH" at the top of your lungs. Still, when the pink paintball hit his helmet, it came as a bit of a shock to everyone.

The first was followed swiftly by several more, knocking the wind out of him and effectively knocking him over.

Niall scarpered over and shot him once in the knee, for the lulz.

Several of the girls, most of whom were meant to be on the stag night, ran yelling over the hill. One or two sauntered after leisurely, obviously not bothered with running.

Soon, all of the boys were covered in pink paint, and were very sore for it.


Later, in the large hall they had booked, music was blaring and everyone was a little giddy from the experience. Over in the corner, Venice and Lego were giggling uncontrollably, and no-one really knew why. Until the song started to play, and a spotlight was shone onto the door. Everyone could hear some sort of commotion or arguing from behind the door, and there was a moment of tension before the door was opened slightly.

A man stumbled out, dressed as a cowboy, and looking as though he had been pushed. He looked around at the crowd. "Umm... Hi. I'm the strippergram you booked?"

Derek Landy begrudgingly began to remove his bolo tie.

(Derek's stripping song.)

Monday, 14 November 2011

For Kal

From myself and Venice Rain.
Happy birthday.

Kallista Pendragon walked slowly down the darkened alleyway, being as cautious as she possibly could, and doing her best to stalk the man who was her target. So far, she was doing well.
Well, apart from the giggling.
Kal was trying very hard not to laugh, very hard indeed, but the man had a funny walk. And bad hair. Well, most of his hair was bad. The rest was gone.
Kal saw a cat scamper across a gap in the large containers. Why did he have to go to a dock, she wondered. Couldn't he have gone to somewhere not creepy and not easy to get lost in?
Regardless, she saw him nip into one of the rows of iron boxes, and she too turned the same corner.
She only lost sight of the man for a second, but she still had enough time to catch a glimpse of him again, before he nipped down another column.
Kallista sprinted after him this time, unwilling to lose him, and she turned every corner he turned, went up every column of containers he did, followed him every step of the way.
He was too fast, though. He turned one corner, and Kal thought she had lost him, until she saw that the door of one of the containers was ever so slightly ajar. Grinning, she walked over slowly, cautiously, to the door, before pulling it open sharply. She struck a dramatic, "HAH, I FOUND YOU" pose, and pointed her finger at where she expected the man to be.
Kal looked around the container, which was somehow much larger on the inside. Hellboy, still panting, removed the wig and coat he had been wearing.
"Damn," he puffed. "You're quick."
Looking around the container, she could see all of her friends, except for the boy she most wanted to see.
And then the cake exploded.

Naturally, Venice was standing closest to the cake. Others shrieked and laughed and jumped. Niall, after checking she was okay, shook his head
“What a waste of cake.” She glowered at him.
Kal went around hugging and nooging everyone one by one, and again if she felt like it. Eventually she made a bee-line for Venice and Niall, who were whispering into a small device, looking unhappy.
“Whats the problem!?” she was putting on a happy face, but she knew the answer to the question. Venice took Kallistas hand in hers.
“Well, Kal. You know how you love Octa?” her sister in all but blood nodded. “well, hes… Kal, hes…”at that point, Venice buried her head into Nialls shoulder.
He took over.
“Kal, look, hes behind you!” Kallista whirled, and the love of her life caught her by her shoulders, resplendent in a suit lined with purple… and a massive purple bow that looked as though it had only recently been attached.
“Dammit Octa, you were supposed to be behind the cake!!”
Kal and Octa started hugging happily, and so Lego started shooing people out good naturedly, along with Ann-Marie and Skyril, leaving them with dimmed lights and a picnic of epica proportions.

Sunday, 6 November 2011

Hallowe'en (trick or) Treat!

AN: I just know I'll have left somebody out here. I tried to give
everyone at least a passing mention, but it's hard. -_-
If it happens to be you I've left out, leave a comment and I'll add
you in.
I'm very sorry.

"So, the food's there, the drinks are there, the movies start at ten,
and the awful CD of Halloween music I burnt is on the stereo. Go,"
Niall said, making shooing motions with his hands. "Go, be free. I
command it."
The other people in the apartment cheered and the small talk
continued. As odd as the people were already, they were eem worse when
dressed up for the last day of October. Kallista the bunny rabbit was
talking to Quinn the Werewolf, two Klingons (Octa and Pyro) were
having a gentle headbutting contest in the corner, and Gepard- dressed
as Brock from the Pokémon anime- was trying to chat up Frankenstein-
NJ. Ann wandered around helping out, dressed a female version of
Alphonse Elric. She was engaged in a deep philosophical debate with
Lego, who was dressed as Edward Elric. It was actually quite amusing
how their costumes synched up like that. Byrony, Ayesha, Mar, Rue and
Lilith all sat around the coffee table, rolling dice and arguing good-
naturedly. They'd found the D&D red box, and were rolling themselves
up characters. Nicolette and Skyril were trying to decide who had the
best Tom Baker scarf, and Thalia was trying her best to shoot Lunar in
the face on whatever FPS was in the console.
Even Niall, who was always reluctant to make an assclown of himself,
had donned a costume for the party.
Resplendant in a pristine, albeit brown suit and top hat, he was as
good a Professor Layton as it was possible to be.
He still looked like a bally nincompoop, though.
As he was trying to get the CD to stop skipping, there came a knocking
at the door. He walked over to open it, and was delighted when he saw
that it was Venice. Resisting the urge to hug her, he settled for
"I thought you couldn't come!"
"It appears I lied.
"I'm glad," Niall smiled. "And you're a... Serving wench?"
"Pirate, but close enough," she replied witheringly. "What's going on?" she asked, peering
over his shoulder.
"We have bad food and worse music and the B-movies start at ten."
"Good times."


The B-Movies started at ten, but nobody was ready for them until
twenty past. The lights had been turned off, and people were strewn
around the room. Some lying, some sitting, some standing.
M&Ms and popcorn lay dissolving in puddles of various fizzy drinks.
Niall knew he'd have to get in professional cleaners after the party,
and, frankly, he didn't care. Everyone was having too much fun to care.
"Everyone shush," said Gepard loudly. "I'm trying to watch this."
"She dies at the end!" Kal yelled, pointing at the screen.
"He's actually Satan," shouted Isabella.
"That actor's German," Aquila threw into the conversation.
"He gets turned into a zombie," said Jasmine and Iris simultaneously.
"That guy," added Darkane, pointing at a different person onscreen.
"shoots that girl."
"Spoilers," said Dragona, before flopping down onto the carpet. He
immediately sat up again, as he had flopped down into one of the
puddles of food and fizz. Unbeknownst to him, pieces of popcorn still
clung to his shirt.
There came an insistent thudding at the door of the apartment. It came
during a relatively silent part of the film, and several people
jumped. One or two even screamed a little.
Niall hit mute.
"Who is it?" he yelled.
The thing gave no response but a series of muffled words. Niall
thought he heard the words "eight" and "band" in there, but he
couldn't have been sure. Regardless, it continued thumping.
Niall gently removed Venice from his knee, and got up off of his
chair, walking over to the door.
Sliding the chain closed before he opened the door, he placed his hand
on the doorknob.
The room was quiet, and the atmosphere was tense.
Slowly, carefully, cautiously, he turned the knob.
The thing hit the door as hard as it could. The chain pulled taut, but
did not break, keeping the door from opening out more than a few inches.
Peering into the gloom, Niall could make out the shape of a small boy.
He sighed. "It's only Zombie," he yelled back at the partygoers,
before closing the door in Zombie's face. The small talk continued
anew, but loud swearwords shouted by a boy whose voice had not yet
broken floated in through the door.
Everyone ignored them.

(Author's Note: Sorry Zombie. I may have been a bit harsh.)

Saturday, 29 October 2011

The Novelist

Okay, full disclaimer, this is not that good. But hey, verbose. And meaningful if you want it to have meaning.

The Novelist

It may come as a surprise to you that being a writer is not an especially appealing vocation. It is a life of churning out endless reams of paper with ink on them. It is a life of deadlines, of other people revising the words you strived to find, of an editor brutally dismembering your meticulously crafted sentences. Deadlines stifle creativity. If I may misquote Joyce, good writing is the right words in the right order. That is how I write. Writing is a craft. Writers are wordsmiths. Writers bend the written word to their will, they use prose to inform the masses, their publishers force them to write tripe for the mass market.
Writers are poor.
Some writers, if I am being honest, are immensely wealty, but they are rare and elusive. Very few writers are selected to chart, although, if I may be frank as well as honest, I would never have wanted to be one. It is a sad truth that the general public have very little taste in literature. Drivel like Meyer sells by the tonne, but Kafka, Sexton, even Wodehouse are ignored. 
Meyer is what I'm reading now. I'm making even less than I usually am, because the disenfranchised masses can see me scowl and scoff.
Nobody likes a surly homeless. 
I take what I can get. I'll take pennies, scraps of food, and paperbacks. Paperbacks are my priority, to be fair. Food can be stolen, pennies can be scrounged, but I never like to steal books. I wince at Meyer's description of the angsty, faux-Byronic would-be Adonis that she felt the need to commit to paper. A soft voice from above, and I look up from where I am sitting.
"Eclipse? Really? You're better than that." The voice is emanating from a young woman. The sun is shining behind her head, so I can't see her face, but she appears to be one of those... What do the youth say? Hipcats? No, that doesn't sound quite right. Hipster, that's it. She is a hipster. She's displaying all the symptoms I recognise. She has a flannel shirt, an overly large "beanie" hat, spectacles that may or may not have corrective lenses, and a tote bag she seems to have covered in ironic pins. It is into this bag that she reaches, and she removes a battered book. It's even got a hard backing, albeit a flimsy one. She hands it down to me, and as she stoops a little, the angle of the light changes, and I can see her face. I take the book thankfully, and I look at the title for a moment. It's a facsimile of an issue of The Strand. A fucking facsimilie of the issue with A Study In Scarlet. I look up, but she is gone. 
I open the book and begin to read.  

AN: Maybe more to come. Maybe.

Wednesday, 12 October 2011

Free books plz.

I want free books, okay.

Yaddayaddablah, we love Derek, blah blah, BOOKS PLZ SIR!