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Messages - Eater of Clowns

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Mmmm.  So good.  I daresay, your ability to write dialog is pretty damn good.

Thank you! Someone else on PD told me that a while back and I really appreciate it.

I'm trying to get Lara's word choice just a little off, in a non-native English speaker way. Luckily from being in a Colombian family for half my life I have some experience with how it sounds.  :lulz:

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: A new currency.
« on: July 24, 2014, 11:10:17 pm »
I collapsed back down on the bench, the burst of energy likely some of my last.

“I said ‘You look awful’,” Lara tried again.

“And now you know why.” I looked at her, entreating, “you aren’t afraid of the Debt Collector.”

She nodded.

“So you’ve never seen him.”

She nodded again.

“So you left me down there by choice,” I said flatly. I realized I was looking through her and I turned away.


“What, did you, did you just hope I would die down there? Problem solved? No more idiot gringo to look after?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I expected you to leave your Necronomicoin behind, just like you did, and to find me gone and decide to go back to your family. Like any sane person would! To get back home, a little changed maybe, but to get home and to forget about that horrible place and what you left there and,” she swallowed, “who left you there.”

“I might have,” I said. “Yeah, maybe I would have if that was all there was to it. But Lara, you have to believe me. This Debt Collector is dangerous. It was the worst thing I saw down there and, trust me, I saw some pretty bad things. They weren’t evil, though, not like him, they were cruel, maybe and dangerous and powerful, but not evil.” I looked at her again. “You should be afraid. I was. I am. That’s why I’m here.”

Lara leaned forward and rested her hand lightly on my own. “You look awful,” she said for the third time. I said nothing. “We have to get you cleaned up.” She looked up at the sky, toward the sun. “And soon. There isn’t much time and you’re going to need clothes, and,” looking at my head, “a haircut.”

“I just had a haircut before I-”

“A real haircut.”

She was in a dress, I realized, and jewelry and makeup and, “what for,” I said slowly.

“For the Museo del Oro, idiot gringo, like I told you,” she chided.

“It’s closed.” I pointed across the plaza.

“It’s closed to them,” she swept her hand at the people around us, “it’s closed to you,” she pointed at me, “but it is, or it will be, open for me.” She nudged me, “for us. When the gala starts, anyway.” She stood and held her hand down to me, flicking her wrist up. “Up up. We have work to do. We have to make you presentable.”

I groaned and eased forward, pressed down on my palms to lift myself and groaned again and sat heavily. I glared at her.

Lara smiled and exaggeratedly tapped her foot. It clicked softly on the ground.

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: A new currency.
« on: July 24, 2014, 10:31:59 pm »
I opened my eyes to the voice, or I tried, but my palms stuck them closed. Lifting my head I tried again and a blurry vision stood before me in pearls and a tight little red dress and tumbling golden brown curls. I blinked, against disbelief and the sun and the angel standing there.

“You look…” was all I managed.

She tilted her head back and laughed like she had at the brewery, that overly flirtatious laugh that worked despite its obviousness, and I laughed with her in relief and exhaustion. A hero would have swept her up in his arms then but I leaned backward and when I hit the back of the bench I went sideways and lay down on the stone. Gracefully, in heels, she moved just beyond my head and sat down there. She stroked her hand against my head gently.

“You made it out of the Catedral,” she said. And I was silent for the angel abomination guardian and the godhood bestowing guardian and the grotesque slug guardian and the -

“DEBT COLLECTOR!” I yelled, sitting up, eyes wide. “Lara, the Debt Collector! It’s after you, you have to run.” Lara sat there. “There were three guardians, like you said, but there was something else, Lara, something that was waiting for us there. It called itself the Debt Collector. I was warned about it in the bathroom.” She looked at me apprehensively. “On the wall of the bathroom, in 1492 over at -”

“The T, yes, I know Bogota,” she said.

“It said ‘Befriend The Thief. Pity The Ledgerman. Beware The Debt Collector.’” I pointed at her, “You’re The Thief.” She looked affronted for a moment, then nodded. “He,” and I mimicked the thick set of him and the squirming hair and the segmented skin, “was the Debt Collector. He trapped me in some kind of rock and then he went after you. I got out, I made it to the, and by the way I’m still upset you didn’t tell me about this, the Necronomicoin ATM, and when I got back you were gone. I rented a motorcycle and rushed here after I remembered what you said about the Museo del Oro.”

She sat back and rested on her palms, looking at me and then away. She took in a breath as though to speak, then stopped.

“You rode a motorcycle in Bogota?” she asked.

I nodded. She smirked, then her face turned stern. “Rushing after me was foolish, J. I do not know if you think you are some knight in shining armor but I am not your damsel and I do not need any rescuing,” she rolled her eyes, “American men! Always have to save me,” her eyebrows perked up, “but it does make them easier to rob.”

So, the match was...

It was shite.  Entirely B-team, so much so that they rubbed it in our faces when the stars walked out to midfield during halftime.  It was a meaningless friendly, so there was nothing at stake, and it was essentially a scrimmage.  None of the fans knew the chants or songs (for fuck's sake, it was on a goddamn Pink Floyd album, and you still don't know it?), and there wasn't even a hint of violence. 

On the other hand, there was plenty of beer, and Roma's winning goal went directly through Liverpool's legs in a classic "what the WHAT?" moment. 

Basically, it was the entire reason soccer hasn't really caught on in the US, in that if the players don't care, neither will the crowd.  At least the tickets were cheap.


At least when the NFL makes half assed attempts to break into Britain, they send Tom fucking Brady over there to draw in the crowds.

That was seriously annoying.

Really? I liked it. It was actually pretty relaxing.

But I have to say, the trend of people thinking it's their responsibility to disconnect others from social media is starting to piss me off. There was that one video a few months ago with a guy reading a poem he wrote, and it said we're creating smart phones and dumb people. At least two of the people I saw share it are the ones at parties that keep pulling out their phones.

It's a bunch of you're-doin-it-wrong even though everyone's doing the same fucking thing.

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: My Girl Friday
« on: July 21, 2014, 02:45:58 pm »
Certainly no blood came out, which is the normal state of affairs when you shoot someone.

This line in particular caught me.  :lulz:

Depends on the character I'm playing. If I'm in heavy RP mode, I may be more likely to play as a sentimentalist. If I'm playing someone whose focus is getting rich, I'll use a formula based on how rich I am to determine which items I pick up. Early days, items need to be worth at least ten times their weight in resale value and that goes up as I accumulate wealth.

I'm currently playing as a soul collector who pickpockets weapons from her victims, soul traps them, kills them with their own blade and then enchants the weapon and names it after the deceased. I have a house full of iron daggers named after each and every villager in the game. That's kind of a sentimentalist.

Our Sheriff took off to Texas to witness the border crisis in person.

He is quoted as saying he would send the busloads of children away in a heartbeat, and that what we have isn't a humanitarian crisis, but a "crisis of leadership." He thinks some of them will end up in Massachusetts and we'll end up housing them at our jail.

Shitty coffee is a godsend.

Give me that dirty mud from a greasy spoon any day, a million degrees and tarnishing stainless steel spoons, burning holes in my stomach and leaving pockmarks on the floor below. I'll take free refills, thank you very much.



Squish squish squish.




Wrong European, EoC.

I can't even speak belgian

There is only one European. The rest of them murdered and ate one another in the coming bad times.

It's Pix.

I wouldn't admit to that. Some other Eurospag is going to chop off your head to steal your power. There can be only one.

Wrong European, EoC.

I can't even speak belgian

There is only one European. The rest of them murdered and ate one another in the coming bad times.

Is this? Zippletits Dutchbag?

You may have heard that the psychotropic element of mushrooms is not digestible, and can thus be harvested from the urine of the previous user. There are tales of early peoples drinking animal urine to experience the effects of mushrooms that would be otherwise poisonous to humans. Alty personally believes this also to be true of sexual ability, and has spent the last ten years of his life harvesting, and imbibing, walrus piss.

We've all received those ads for male enhancement. Alty has too, and he knows it's for suckers. "They're just walrus piss pills," he'd say, drinking a rancid glass of aquatic mammal urine.

Hear tell, it works too. The man's an absolute demon. Tales of dreamy eyed men and women walking around bow legged and smiling, frequenting the saw dust covered floors of whatever shit dive bar they think Alty may patron that evening.

It should be said that as interest rose in Alty's particular method, studies were undertaken and, no, one gains neither walrus virility nor penile girth from drinking their urine. Yet still he does it, and still it works for him.

Demolition was a natural choice for Junkenstein for the simple fact that his ejaculate is pure nitroglycerin. This would be harmful, fatal in fact, to his partners, if his partners were human or, indeed, alive at all. None know for sure what gets him going, only that rubble and dust mark the spots of his lovemaking.

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