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Messages - Eater of Clowns

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1
I can ride my bike with no handlebars

2
We were at Turner's Pond and it was early, real early. I'd pulled up ready for the run and saw her standing off the path and looking out over the water. There was a little pile of flat stones by her feet. She'd been here long enough to collect them.

"Hey," I said.

"Hey."

"We're not running today, are we?"

She didn't look at me. She picked up one of the flat stones and she hefted it in her palm. She swung her arm back over her hip and let it fly over the water, swiveling just a little on follow through. The rock skipped once, twice, three times. Little splashes like thunderclaps, little ripples like tidal waves.

"No," she said.

I nodded. She couldn't see me. She picked up another stone. I winced as she threw it.

"Listen," I said, "could you stop for a second and-"

"No!" Finally she turned to face me. "Can you stop, EoC? Can you stop?" She tossed the next stone. Skip, skip, skip, plunk. Would have been a good throw for a half stack. Too much power for a full, not enough spin. "You can't, can you? You know, when we started dating, I told you I couldn't go back to it, I told you that part of me was gone. I told you that I couldn't be around it anymore and you promised me those days were behind you. Promised me!"

I was silent. I picked up one of her stones. Would have been a great custom slammer, flat but just a little fat in the center, would have fooled even the regulars with the weight. I looked at her and I looked over the water, then I tossed the thing down like a stack was on the other end. It was mean and she set her jaw.

"You miss it," I said. "Listen, you know you could just do it casually. I know this one crew, they don't even play for keeps, you can-"

"Goodbye, EoC." That was it. It was final.

I walked back to the path, back to the lot and the car. Behind me the world went skip, skip, skip, plunk and all the little sprayed droplets were a thousand cardboard discs.

3
Hell of a thing, pogs.

They come up around here now and then and my days banging slammers behind the roller rink come back in a flood, the storms and the strange kid and the wreckage. Wreckage of pogs and people.

Richter and I thought we could hash it out, you know, after the last time. Talk therapy or something, I don't know. We met up for some fine German beer and maybe a round or two of Barenjager. Nothing treats the soul like live accordian and drinking songs. It was game night, the perfect thing, maybe a pickup game of Catan could distract us if it got too real.

But it was game night. Splayed across fields of folding plastic was an array of tabletop ranging from simple card to complex miniature. They held the attention of bodies in steel chairs happily sipping on imported lager. Richter and I nodded our approvals. This would do, yeah, this would be fine.

We were insufficiently drunk to bring up the topic of pogs, of course, but every quarter hour or so one of us would look up at the other, just about ready to say it, then toss the dice again before we made such a dumb mistake. The other gamers were friendly and invited us to a few of their rounds, one guy in particular taking interest. He bought us drinks and clapped us on the back after good plays and we circled the place, sticking to the light stuff, nothing with collectible components.

It was maybe the third hour in that our new friend pulled us aside. Got a different kind of game going, guys, if you're interested. None of this casual shit. He reached into his pocket and before he could show us his hand I shoved him away. I grabbed Richter and moved us toward the exit but it was too late. As the guy stumbled back he dropped them and they made a telling soft sound, a dozen of them and then a clatter of something heavy.

It was too much for Richter. He ripped his arm free and turned and surveyed the room, the battlefield, the killing grounds. Honed instinct took him and the daze of booze drained from his eyes. Richter, I called, go someplace else. Go someplace else but too little, too little. When the first table fell and the various gamers drunkenly scrambled away I got out of there.

Never did hear about the aftermath. You don't look back with pogs.

Pogs, man. Hell of a thing.

4
Literate Chaotic / Re: Five word horror
« on: July 24, 2015, 02:08:42 am »
Roger and Cain on Caledonian.

5
You should come work with me, Roger.

Trust me, it's fun.

I'm more likely to end up in prison doing that than doing this.

Cain and Roger work together. Caledonian Road cleans up its act in two weeks, citing unreasonable risk.

6
Of course, this would happen because someone finally fixed the printer.

Evenbetter!Itsoundslikeyoucanfitmorewordstothepageintheprint ernowwhichmeanslesspageswhichmeanslesschancesfori ttobreakagain.Prettyefficientgottasaywelldone.

7

EoC:



I WAS IN THAT PORTA-POTTIE, YOU BASTARD!

Dok,
Stained blue.
Yeah I know, I needed to get the balloon higher.

Huh. Tapatalk seems to be using the high school e-mail address I used to sign up for it as my forum name.

Other side effects include Pop Tart.
You have to hand it to me, this is the longest poptart has gone without gleefully outing himself.

8

EoC:



I WAS IN THAT PORTA-POTTIE, YOU BASTARD!

Dok,
Stained blue.
Yeah I know, I needed to get the balloon higher.

Huh. Tapatalk seems to be using the high school e-mail address I used to sign up for it as my forum name.

9
I AM SURROUNDED BY SMILES OH WHAT A HAPPY LIFE

10

Deckard: Youíre in a desert walking along in the sand when all of the sudden you look down, and you see a tortoise, itís crawling toward you. You reach down, you flip the tortoise over on it's back. The tortoise lays on it's back, it's belly baking in the hot sun, beating it's legs trying to turn it'self over, but it canít, not without your help. But youíre not helping. Why is that?


What the everloving shit?!

Who is this Deckard person?  A quick google of the name didn't lead me to anything I would immediately connect.
Rick Deckard, using the Kobayashi Maru to find out if Harry Potter is the Kwisatz Haderach.

11
    User: What's that white fluffy thing in the sky?

    Deep Dream: Doggie!

    User: Close enough. What's that big bright circle?

    Deep Dream: Doggie!

    User: Fine, whatever. What about this green stuff on the ground?

    Deep Dream: Doggie!

Deckard: Itís your birthday. Someone gives you a calfskin wallet. How do you react?

Deep Dream: Doggie!

Deckard: Youíve got a little boy. He shows you his butterfly collection plus the killing jar. What do you do?

Deep Dream: Doggie!

Deckard: Youíre in a desert walking along in the sand when all of the sudden you look down, and you see a tortoise, itís crawling toward you. You reach down, you flip the tortoise over on it's back. The tortoise lays on it's back, it's belly baking in the hot sun, beating it's legs trying to turn it'self over, but it canít, not without your help. But youíre not helping. Why is that?

Deep Dream: Doggie!

Deckard: This could take all night, he's stonewalling us.
:spittake:

12


That is horrifying.

He really should have browned that baby before braising it.

13
Or Kill Me / Re: Children of the Strange Times
« on: July 14, 2015, 02:16:04 am »
I love this! Fuck yeah, weird kids!

15
WOW.

THAT is a seriously good time.  :lulz:

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