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Here's the beginning of a creepypasta I'm working on.

 Do you remember Showbiz Pizza? It was a popular alternative to Chuck E. Cheese (Back then called Pizza Time Theatre) back in the 80's. It had its own animatronic band, called the Rock Afire Explosion, which did amazing covers of popular music from the time. However, Pizza Time Theatre and Showbiz Pizza merged back in 1984, and became Showbiz Pizza Time. This was a dark time for the Rock Afire Explosion, for soon corporate started to make unnecessary changes to the band and it eventually became a shadow of what they once were, the shows now being produced by corporate itself, and thus the quality of the shows dipped. This was during the time of the video game crash, so the company wasn't making too much money. However, in 1986, the Nintendo Entertainment System came to America, and Showbiz Pizza Time saw a money opportunity. However, they were cautious, and decided to make a test game. They got a cheap, unofficial company to program and develop a Rock Afire Explosion game in less than 5 months. It was hell for the poor developers, one man even attempting suicide from the stress. Since Showbiz Pizza Time didn't want any media attention from the incident, they decided to cut the develop time even shorter, and the game was “finished” in 3 months, and only around 100 copies of the game were sent out to multiple Showbiz Pizza restaurants. Children could win it for 7000 tickets, or their parents could buy it for 25 dollars.


I was one of the kids that got that game so many years ago. I had saved up my tickets for weeks so I could get that game, since I had been eyeballing it since it first appeared behind the prize counter. Then, on a Wednesday night, I went in and gleefully exchanged my tickets for “Billy Bob and Friends: NES Adventure!”, which at the time I thought looked amazing. However, more recently, that thought faded away as I realized how cheaply made it appeared. I had recently managed to make a ROM of said game, since I didn't want to go buy an NES just to revisit a shitty game from my childhood. However, I wasn't able to play it, for the ROM I had made seemed to be corrupted. I was upset, but I decided to just brush it off and continue with my week.

After a month I had nearly forgotten about the game and the ROM. I didn't forget about Showbiz Pizza, though. I had been obsessed with them for weeks and weeks after making it, researching and learning all I could about the restaurant and the animatronic band, eventually joining a fan forum specifically for Showbiz.

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Been writing a rather bizarre Kill la Kill fanfic for the past year and a half now.




It's definitely something that will not appeal to everyone and probably would even piss off some KlK fans, but honestly don't give a crap. Love KlK a lot and I haven't had much fun writing such a crazy take, even more so than that Evangelion fanfic I was writing for a while.


Should have Chapter 25 up in a few days.

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Gonna bump this thread to share something I wrote in like 5 minutes. Context of this is some generic war, and the script follows one side, whose leadership consists mainly of idiots. This would be a comedy type show/story were I to expand it.



Martin Stanton – Group leader. From Iowa. Physically strong, but somewhat of a klutz.


Alex Watson – Martin's second-in command, and the tactician of the group. From Manchester, England. Intelligent, but socially useless.


Miles Pike – Relays orders from Martin to the others. From Cork, Ireland. Angered by people less intelligent than him.




MARTIN and ALEX are in a planning room, pouring over a map of the field, a typical war map with figures etc. MARTIN is sitting down, ALEX standing.



So wait. You're saying that we're outnumbered in that area by at least two to one...






That they have us outgunned here...






And that we can't capture this point due to anti-aircraft fire.





ALEX looks confused.



And yet you still insist we're making progress?!


MARTIN nods.





ALEX looks angry. Martin is smiling.



You idiot! We're doing the exact opposite of making progress! We're going backwards.


MARTIN stands defiantly.



Well I'm not going to tell the others that, right? I mean, what good would that do?


ALEX sighs.



Besides, we're doing well. We're still standing. And it's not like anyone has given up yet.


MILES barges in.



Sorry, lads, but I'm giving up.


ALEX facepalms. MARTIN looks geniunely shocked.



What? Why? What's this about?


MILES looks fed up.



Look, I don't know how to put this softly, but... the entire organisation of this group, sans Alex, are... severely lacking in mental capacity.


ALEX looks somewhat pleased with himself. MARTIN is puzzled, but after some thinking looks angry.



Hey... are you calling me stupid?!


MILES thinks and looks slightly defensive.



Oh, no, no, that's not it at all... what I'm saying is that 99% of this group are complete and utter retards and I refuse to work with them.


ALEX holds his head in his hands. MARTIN thinks, and after a while, laughs raucously, assuming what MILES has said was a compliment.



Oh, that's what you meant! Ah, I get it. Yeah, that's fine, you do what you like, I don't care.


MILES is slightly shocked by MARTIN's response.



Eh... right. Not quite the response I was expectin', but thanks anyway!


MILES exits. ALEX now looks fed up.



Eh, that guy. He's a funny one, eh?



Was. He just left, remember?



Oh I'm sure he'll be back.


ALEX is now annoyed at MARTIN's incompetence.



I don't think he will. I mean he just insulted you, and the rest of this group. I think it's safe to say he will most certainly not be coming back.


MARTIN looks puzzled.



Oh, forget it. Maybe you're right.


MARTIN looks smug.



I knew I was right. Now how about a beer?

MILES can be heard shouting from a distance.



Oh, and thanks for not objectin' to me taking the rest of the beer!


MARTIN closes his eyes and is visibly annoyed.



...What an asshole.

I know it's not formatted right but whatever. Again, probably not the best thing in the world but the idea come to my head and I wanted to write it.

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Here's a short story I wrote over the past year.


“Have you worked with us before?”

“If I had, I wouldn’t be here.”

The manager looked up, simulating curiosity. “Well, what makes you say that?”

The applicant pretended to swallow something, and then said, “You’ve got a reputation, don’t you? People talk.”

“Well, you shouldn’t believe everybody.”

“Everybody? What if everybody says it?” The applicant raised his eyebrows, as an additional question mark, and then added, “Everybody on Yahoo, that is.”

Avoiding eye contact, the manager heaved a sigh as he reviewed the pile of papers on his desk. He tugged at the collar of his professional-looking shirt, which almost revealed his slightly protruding chest and tucked itself into a pair of slacks. He noticed that the applicant had settled for khakis and green polo, making him look like a typical rule-abiding teenager. Assuming he dropped the smart routine soon, he was probably good for something, the manager thought. Heaving another sigh, the manager looked back at the applicant’s face and asked, “Alright, so what do people say?”

The applicant arched his eyebrows again, and said, “Well, does the word ‘scam’ mean anything to you?”

The manager laughed. “Scam? What’s a scam?” That made the applicant frown, so he said, “Come on, I’d like to know. Just why is it a scam?”

They were sitting on opposite sides of the desk in an almost completely white room, and bathing in stray rays of sunlight from a nearby window while the interview took its course. One ray began on top of the applicant’s light brown-haired head, and slanted down his average build until it lay on the floor at his sneakers.

When he didn’t respond, the manager treated him to a thorough rebuttal of any dubious claims that might be. Occasionally while the man talked, the applicant’s gaze would go out the window, towards the few trees that remained in the office’s parking lot. When the manager went back on course, the applicant’s mind would return to the room, and start to wonder, how many office appliances could have the same color? He would’ve asked, but he had a question to answer first.

“Well, some people – a lot of people, actually – they say you wouldn’t give them leads until they called every family member and friend with a number. You made them buy the first set. You found some excuse not to pay them when they met the quota. Is that right?”

The manager lowered his eyebrows – looking as collected as anyone might, given this challenge to his honesty – and leaned closer to the applicant.

“That,” he started, “is complete bull. Forgive me for saying. I’ll show you the contract, the official one, and you’ll tell me if you see any of what you just said. Okay?”

The other one smiled and repeated, “Okay.”

The man produced the contract from a portfolio on his desk and laid it out in front of the applicant. The latter picked it up and moved his eyes across it several times, squinting at the smaller print.

When the applicant put the paper down, he wore a grin, brown eyes glowing bright in the afternoon sun.

“Sounds like a good thing. I’ll do it.”

Looking pleased, the man smiled and said, “That’s great to hear, young man. Any other questions before we start?”

Yes, there were. The applicant’s questions, one by one, ricocheted off the manager’s wall of expertise:

Yes, a diploma would be sufficient.

Yes, the first set came free, and additional wares would be available in the downstairs supply room after the first series ran out.

A few minutes later, the applicant had signed the contract and become an employee. Seemingly satisfied, the man tucked the paperwork away into a folder, and then grinned at the applicant.

“Alright. Well, what’s your name again?”

“John Hedge.”

The two stood up from their chairs to shake hands. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Hedge,” the manager said, and John managed a smile with teeth.


A dull yellow sun and a blank blue sky formed the necessary background of Nevada’s view. She lay on her back, covering a beach towel and supported from the shoulders up by her house’s front wall. From her patio, she could look out on the treeless lawns of neighbors, grass turned yellow by the drought and its lawn-watering restrictions.

Nevada held her phone in such a position as to block out the sun. While posing like this, she tried to read the box office forecast for the weekend, something about an alien movie bound to bomb badly. The sunlight reflected off her phone onto her yellow-reddish hair, causing fake ripples in the braids and giving her white T-shirt a glare.

“Bzzzzzzzz! Bzzzzzzzzz!” said Nevada’s phone. The screen changed to a phone icon and an unknown caller’s number. Nevada swiped the icon and put the phone up to her ear, squinting in the sunlight as she did so.


“Hello, Nevada?” a low male voice asked.

“Who is this?”

After a brief pause, the voice answered, “It’s John. You know, from class?”

Now she recognized it, although she couldn’t quite picture John’s face.

“John? I remember, yeah. Which class?”

“AP bio. We, uh, did a lab once.”

“Oh yeah, I remember that!” she said, although she didn’t. “What’s up? How’s your summer?”

His was going fine, as was hers when he repeated the question. A few awkward lines and pauses passed between the phones, until John asked another question.

“Hey, Nevada, can you help me out?”

Hesitantly, she said, “With what?”

“Well,” he continued, “I just got a job with a, a company called Patioworld. Now get this, I’m supposed to sell lawn ornaments, you know, to people. They’re pretty tacky, for the, the most part, but a few of them look pretty nice, I gotta say, and they don’t cost that much.”

“Well, what can I do? You want me to buy one?” Her lack of patience started to show, and he caught it, speaking quicker in the next sentence.

“No, you, uh, don’t have to, but just do this for me, please? Set me up with your parents. I just need one, you know, appointment for each one, show them my wares and stuff. It’ll take like 15 minutes and they don’t need to buy anything.”

Her reply came all at once, but he kept going.

“Come on, Nevada, it’ll help me out a lot. I’m supposed to talk to people I, uh, know, and their parents, about this. I’m required to.”

“Well, that kinda makes you a tool.”

“That’s not very nice.”

“Sorry, John, I just don’t think they’ll have time. Why don’t you call another friend? One you actually know, maybe?”

A short silence followed, and then an “Okay, bye” ended the call.

She put the phone back in her pants pocket and sighed. Maybe she shouldn’t have been so rude, she thought; he must have meant well. She just didn’t want to waste her time with somebody she didn’t know. She’d rather waste it by herself, like she was doing now.


Her parents got home around six, her father a few minutes before and her mother a few minutes after. The sun still shone in the sky, but Nevada had retreated to her room with a book, to get out of the glare. They smiled and asked her how she was doing, how the job search was going, how the book was. Her answers were all “okay.”

Over convection-baked dinner, her father mentioned that one of her classmates had called him at about four, asking if he could make a sales pitch.

Nevada’s eyes and ears perked up. “Well, what did you say to him?”

Her father had said no, he wasn’t interested and he didn’t have the time.

“Good,” she said. “I think it’s a scam.”

“Wait, a classmate?” her mother asked, looking up from the table. “Do we know him?”

“I don’t think so,” her father said. “His name’s John Hedge.”

Her mother mulled the name over for a few seconds, and then piped up. “Oh! John! Someone named John called me today. Is it the same one? He said he wanted to sell some lawn ornaments.”

“You didn’t say yes, did you?” Nevada said, looking uneasy.

“No, I didn’t, but we had a nice little chat. He seems like a friendly young man.”

That didn’t sound like John, Nevada thought, but she kept quiet. After all, she didn’t know him very well, and his job required him to be a nuisance. Maybe outside of that, he was different. Whatever. She went back to her plate.

A bath and a few chapters of White Noise later, she had settled into bed. She was about to fall asleep before she realized that John had called her parents at work. She had no idea how he knew her parents’ numbers.


The day after, she had forgotten about it. She spent the evening with a friend on the other side of the bay, only getting back very late at night.

The next morning, while Nevada was combing her long braids in the bathroom mirror, she turned her eyes out the window and thought she saw something that didn’t belong there. A tank top and a pair of jeans later, she went out the front door to confirm it.

In the house right across from hers lived the Newmans, a newly installed suburban family and not afraid to show it. The Newmans’ shaggy brown dog sunned itself on the yellow grass, a few feet away from a five-foot-tall toothpick facsimile of the newly built Bay Bridge. Ms. Newman herself stood on the walkway to the house, bug spray in hand, being careful not to spray near the statue. Nevada crossed the road and said hello to the older woman.

“Hello Nevada, how are you?”

“Fine. Where’d you get that?” she said, pointing to the statue.

“Funny story, Nevada,” the woman said, “I was just sitting in my kitchen, and I got a phone call. A young man named John, a classmate of yours, he says. He works for Patioworld, and he asked me would I like to buy anything? I’ve been dying to lighten up this lawn, you know, so I said yes. He came here in a big white truck and showed me what he had, and I thought this piece just looked so nice. Now I don’t have to drive to Pleasanton to see it. Isn’t it wonderful?”

Nevada thought the statue looked dumb, and told Ms. Newman so. The older woman just shrugged. “They won’t let me water my own lawn,” she said with a scowl, “so what else am I supposed to do?”

Nevada sighed. “Well, you don’t have to buy that.”

“You know, Nevada,” Ms. Newman said, crooked smile forming, “I’d say you were jealous. An honest classmate of yours, just trying to make some money for college, and you can’t have it. You don’t even have a job.”

Nevada’s mouth dropped a little. Ms. Newman couldn’t have intended to sound as bitter as she had. Regaining her composure, she replied, “I could get one. Easy.”

The older woman folded her arms. “I’d like to see that,” she said, looking at her lawn. As she turned around and starting walking back to her front door, she called out over her shoulder, “and don’t touch my toothpick statue! Okay? Have a nice day.”

Sitting up to scratch itself, the Newmans’ dog farted. The toothpick statue immediately crumbled to the ground.


A new statue stood on the lawn two days later, and by that time, it didn’t look so out of place.

At first the truck only stopped in the area once a day. A Swedish-looking lawn chair would emerge from the back of the vehicle, carried by John Hedge and an older assistant, and plopped unceremoniously onto some distant neighbor’s plot. John would slap his hands together, smile at the neighbor, and collect his cash before taking it God knows where.

Soon enough, other neighbors noticed the changes. Maybe some of them had the same gut reaction that Nevada had had – at least, she hoped they did. Whether or not, they all must have gotten over it, and moved on to the stages of acceptance, envy, and one-upmanship.

Two plastic pink flamingos appeared next to a pond by a brick building down the street. A mock Calder mobile hung over another person’s patio, the abstract hanging shapes replaced by fuzzy, comical-looking mosquitoes, maybe to scare away the real ones? Ms. Fletcher, a friend in the Baines’ radius, had opted to place a baby blue bowling ball right in the middle of her lawn, apropos of nothing. An empty medal bedframe sat in the middle of the one next to hers. Hopefully that last one didn’t cost too much.

Nevada wasn’t afraid to go outside, but she groaned about it all the same. Going out into the sun meant taking an added bonus visual tour of tacky 2000s homemaking. If she squinted her eyes, she could almost see life-size cardboard cutouts of One Direction members on the next block’s lawns. Oh no, she thought, it’s in the 2010s as well!

Nevada asked her mother about the alleged fad going on. Her mother told her yes, it did look tacky, and she’d never buy one herself. “But,” she continued, “I do admire that friend of yours.”

“He’s not my friend. I barely know him,” she grumbled.

“Well, he ought to be. Look at what he can do! He’s a born salesman.”

“You don’t have to be a born salesman, mom!” said Nevada, raising her voice. “They don’t care about that. They’ll just send you a letter when you graduate high school. It’s a scam. He won’t even get ten dollars from them. Remember, we got that letter too? I ripped it up.”

“Oh…” her mother said, apparently doubtful. “So John, where is he going to college?”

“I don’t know,” she said, trying to sound like she cared. Then she gave up trying and said she didn’t care.

“Nevada,” her mother sighed. “You’re going to college soon. Only two more months…I’ll hate to see you go. But,” following a pause, “I’d like you to make something of yourself. And you don’t have to wait till college. Have you been looking for a job?”

Yes, she had, but she couldn’t get one without experience and she couldn’t get experience without having a job first. Her mother made a silent tsk-tsk-tsk expression.

“I know you don’t make excuses, Nev,” she said, “but I think you can do better. Look at John, he can’t be more experienced than you, but he’s doing so well!”

“Glad you think so,” Nevada snorted, and returned to her reading.

As she lay in her bed, Nevada heard her phone buzzing. She picked it up and rolled her eyes; John was calling. Hastily putting the phone to her ear, she asked, “What is it, John? It’s late.”

He didn’t immediately answer. She heaved an annoyed sigh and said, “What? What do you want?”

“How do you like my landscaping?” a cheerful voice said.

“It’s shit,” she said through her teeth. “How did you even get them to buy that stuff? I didn’t know you even talked to people that much.”

“That’s not very nice,” he said in a lower tone.

“Well, excuse me, John,” she said. “It’s just more than a little annoying when you see tacky lawn ornaments everywhere, and hear everyone saying what a great salesman you must be. I mean,” trying to be sympathetic, “what if I came to your neighborhood and TP-ed all the houses around yours?”

John laughed, and she couldn’t tell if the laugh was genuine or forced. Maybe both.

“I didn’t know you were a comedienne, Nevada. You should be on SNL. Anyway, is my business really comparable to toilet papering?”

The polysyllable words sounded unnatural coming from John. It almost seemed like a different person was speaking through him, although that was absurd. Nevada sighed, and tried to end the call.

“I don’t know, okay? Do I need to spell it out for you? Just sell stuff in a different neighborhood, please, and leave me alone.” She was about to press the red button, but John piped up again.

“Actually, you can spell something out for me.”

Another sigh. “What?”

Another silence. “Your name.”

She hadn’t been expecting that.

“Yeah, why don’t you spell your name? Nevada. What, what kind of a name is that? Were you born there? You know, you’d be lucky if you were born in China. You might be living in a crappy little village and maybe, uh, dying of pollution, but you wouldn’t have the embarrassment of going around the world with the name ‘Nevada.’ And you say I’m tacky. At least it fits your blonde hair. Isn’t it funny? It’s like they already gave you a stripper name, so you, you don’t have to think one up, and you’re not smart enough to do that anyway. When you end up working at the strip club – and yeah, I said when–”

“Beep, beep, beep,” said the phone in reply.


Jesus Christ, thought Nevada.

At first, she didn’t want to believe it. She had been brought up to assume the best about other people. She could’ve gotten angrier at John the first time around, and the second time too. It was tempting to throw some of his insults back at him, maybe make fun of his uncommon last name. To be honest, though, she had been too surprised – surprised that somebody she barely knew could speak so cruelly. She had thought cruelty to be something reserved for personal hate. Would it really be John Hedge, of all people, to change that for her?

He must have been trying to test her. Every day, he called her – first once, then twice, then thrice, eventually up to six times a day. Didn’t that count as harassment? But when (if) he left a message, he didn’t actually say anything; he only let the static play for about ten seconds, and then hung up. Maybe he was just mocking her, or trying to get her to worry about herself when there wasn’t any real reason to. He couldn’t do anything directly to her, after all. But every day, after the call failed and the static cut off, she would still worry.

And every day, like clockwork, the white Patioworld truck would show up two or three blocks away from her house, delivering Swedish chairs and waterless slides and mock Calder mobiles and even more toothpick statues. Neighbors with one piece upgraded to two. It became hard to see the patios themselves beneath the furniture. If Nevada happened to see John coming out of the truck, no matter how far away she was standing, she went back inside.


Less than a week after John started calling, she had landed an interview with some kind of clothing warehouse in San Bruno. She had set it up for later at night, but the BART train would take a while to get there, so she figured she’d leave early. It was almost six when she called her mom to tell her the good news.

“That’s great, sweetie!” her mother had said. “You’ll do just fine. When will you be back?”

Fairly late, maybe 10 or 11 if it went longer. Yes, the trains ran that late.

“Great. I hope it all goes well, Nev. And we’ll have a surprise for you when you get back home!”

“Thanks! See you later, mom.”

Nevada put the phone down, smiling. In a few minutes, she had slipped into her most professional dress, put on her patent leathers, and walked out the door, resume in bag and bag in hand.

The outside world, still not yet dark in the summer tradition, gave her a fresh feeling, only slightly undermined by all the lawn furniture stinking up the view. She could ignore it for now; she had someplace to go, didn’t she?

The houses passed her one by one, each façade fading from her view as the next one pulled up behind it. She kept her eyes on the sidewalk ahead, the route to the train stop burned into her memory. One moment, she slipped up and her eyes fell onto a random green lawn. This one had a little stone fountain, one that looked like real stone and real water, shooting straight up into the air and falling down again in an endless loop. Nevada slowed her walk and smiled a little as she passed it.

That’s a nice one.

It was a quiet evening, too, she thought, only hearing the sound of the water spraying. She let her eyes wander again. This time, they found a statue of a young-looking man, standing on the neighbor’s patio. Nothing seemed strange about it at first glance. When she looked it at a second time, she noticed that the statue had partially melted from the heat of the day, exposing the model beneath. One half of the man’s face appeared blood red and brown in the evening light, and the other half lacked an ear and an eye. Nevada’s lip curled, and she turned her head away.

She thought about lines of clothing in a mostly empty warehouse, grey air vents visible on all the walls. Then she looked back at the rows of lawns behind her, each one touched by some kind of dissatisfaction. For all to see, there were the additions, bought by the broken or the bored, those who’d never be able to choose anything unless it showed up on their doorstep with some matching deck chairs. Just think: so many things that didn’t need to be there.

And she knew, she didn’t need to be there.

Where did she need to be? Home? Away from home, at college?

Yeah, college would be a surprise, all right.

Nevada stopped on the pavement.


Her mother had said something about a surprise.

Was that the sound of wheels sliding onto cement?

Her house approached her piece by piece, she running towards it, totally forgetful of where she had been going. She reached it in a few minutes, and saw the white wooden front as it had always stood; saw the familiar lawn devoid of any ornament; saw her mother and father walking towards the house. But she had focused so much on that picture that she had somehow managed to miss the large white truck parked alongside the house, mimicking its color.

John came out of the back of the truck, holding a rope in one hand. Her father said something to her, but she didn’t hear it. John noticed her and smiled, gesturing with his other hand to the house. He was pointing at the window in her room.

But the window was gone. A pile of broken glass lay on the patio beneath the blank pane. She walked to the window, stepping lightly over the glass, looking in from outside. A hand covered her mouth, but no sound came out.

Her bed was in a different corner, her bookcase wasn’t there, her bed was in a different corner, a statue stood by the windowpane, a statue of a teenaged girl with yellow-reddish hair and milky white skin and a permanent painted smile on her face...Her mother’s voice floated in from somewhere high above.

“…Just the cutest thing you’ve seen, Nevada? Now when people come through the neighborhood, they’ll think you’re watching all of them! We hope you don’t mind giving up your room, but you’re going to college soon enough anyway, so we figured you wouldn’t. And she looks just like you used to, a little prettier, even! While you’re away, she might be…”

Nevada faltered, hitting the side of the house with her foot. The head of the statue fell off, the hair cracking into dozens of little pieces and the smile splitting in two. A hole appeared in the white girl’s neck, and two mosquitoes flew up out of it, circling the room before rushing out the window and into the evening.

John said, “All done.”

And Nevada…

Nevada started running, boots clacking against the concrete, to the only place that made any sense to her now, a small park grove on the edge of the neighborhood.


She kept running when she got to the woods, to the place where she couldn’t see any houses through the treetops. Passing the park sign in seconds and not looking back, she finally came to that place.

In a heartbeat, she had fished her phone out of her dress pocket, quickly looking over her past messages and finding John’s number in most of them. She clicked on it and listened to the fake sound effect of phones ringing.

After six rings, John picked up.

“What is it now?” he said, feigning annoyance.

“I want a God damn explanation!” she yelled, surprised at the sound of her own voice.

John chuckled over the phone. “Why? What do you want, Nevada? That I should explain myself like some, some Saturday morning cartoon villain? Give me a break.” Another chuckle followed, like in a pattern.

“God damn it, John!” Nevada shouted into the trees. “Look at what you’ve done. The least you could do now is explain.” She gulped, and then let her anger carry her. “At first I thought you were just desperate, but now you’re just an asshole. Why are you torturing me? I haven’t done shit to you, not even in your stupid imagination. What possible – you know what, I don’t even want to know. Just get the hell away from me and my house.”

John made an “hmph” sound, which didn’t seem appropriate.

“So I’m ‘torturing’ you, huh? Do you really think I’m only selling lawn crap in your neighborhood? I’ve got more of your classmates on my list. I’m not singling you out. You’re not that important.”

Nevada gasped.

‘Your’ classmates?

Who did he think…


That’s it, she thought. Nothing could be done now except to appeal to John’s better nature, if it even existed.

“John,” she said, taking the sentences slowly, “it’s a scam. I thought you of all people would know that. They’re not going to pay you for any of this. You’d only do something like this for money, wouldn’t you? You’re not going to get it! I’m asking you for your own good, please stop doing this!”

An exhausted voice cried out, tiring itself in the middle of the woods where only one other person could hear it.

Nothing came back over the line. Nevada steadied herself, readying for John’s reply. Whatever she was expecting, she didn’t get it. John made a low-pitched, stuttering kind of noise. After a few seconds, Nevada registered it as a laugh.

“Are you laughing?” she asked him, not wanting to hear the answer. He still gave it to her.

“I know I’m being ripped off, Nevada. I’ve known it from day one. And you know what? I don’t care!” John kept laughing, slowly rising from a low chuckle to an almost hysterical high. Nevada stood still on the grass.

“You…you don’t c-care?” she said, struggling to form the words.

John’s laughing cut off abruptly. When he spoke the next few lines, she could almost feel him breathing through the phone.

“No, I don’t. And you want to know why? Fine, I’ll tell you. I don’t care because I’m not doing this for money. I want to do this. I want you to…”


“Look at yourself. Look at yourselves. You all lead uncomplicated lives. You’ve never had a problem your parents, your class, your smarts couldn’t solve for you. You have inconveniences, not problems. So, I figure, if you only worry about stupid things, you might as well have a lot, a shitload, of stupid things to worry about.”


“Call me a whiner. A lot of people have. But when I see you – not only you, Nevada, but everybody like you, male, female – and I see you in your sweet sixteen cars and honors classes, worrying about where to get coffee…”

She got some of her voice back, though it didn’t have the edge she wanted. “So, what, John? Is this just a class thing? Is it just because you can’t have those things? That seems so petty.”

This time there was a pause on John’s end. It ended a few seconds later.

“No, that’s not it. I could have those things if I wanted. I could work for people who aren’t ripping me off, for one. But I don’t care what happens to me, Nevada, you understand? I just want you to…to suffer. That’s all.”

He said that last sentence so matter-of-factly, it was as if he didn’t intend anything malicious about it. Nevada’s fear began to embrace confusion. Her voice trickled down again.

“You want me to suffer? What?”

“That’s just it! You only need to suffer. Not with violence, not so I can bring you down to my level, but just so you know how it feels. Do you know how it feels? To see everybody you know acting like assholes, complicating their own lives for no good reason, and you powerless to do anything for them? Powerless to do anything for yourself?”


“Well, I was tired of being powerless. I hope you like it. I’m not getting my money, but I’m satisfied. I feel like taking this around the Bay Area, making people busier, more miserable than they think they should be. How does that sound?”


“Nevada? You still there? Nevada? Hello?”


“Nevada, please pick up! Please! God damn you–”

A beep followed and the call ended. Nevada put her phone down. As she stood in the middle of the woods, eyes unmoving and breath frozen, a large trailer truck with a Patioworld logo pulled up next to the park sign, full of decorations ready to be planted in the grove.

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It wasn't poorly written but you really should fix your spacing, man.  It makes it a bit hard to read when every line is by itself.  Unless that's just the editing getting destroyed by the copy/paste.

Other than it being a fairly standard style (not that that's a bad thing) it was pretty good.  Why did it take you a year to write, though?



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It didn't actually take me a full year to write. I wrote it off and on (due to a busy schedule) for the first two months of the year, then revisited it a few months later, mainly to touch up the dialogue and the final scene. I don't have that spacing in the original document, it must be a copy/paste thing. I'm glad you enjoyed it, though!

Chewbot gives congrats for not getting any warnings for over 7 years Best Writer 2015 Questioning the Triforce of Wisdom's prophecy. mmmmmmmmm Chewbot gives congrats for not getting any warnings for over 5 years For having a blog entry featured. 2013, Best Writer 2014
Best Writer 2016 For meeting Malk at Amoeba. For "GWoNAM Has Not Died Yet" Well done, Link. Well done Link! Are you meen? Because I sure am ha ha ha! Thanks for being strike free. Best overall character in Rabbit's Character Study contest. Good work!

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So yeah, turns out I like writing scripts for that generic-war-comedy-drama thing I did in the first post. Here's another script I wrote, this time introducing more characters. I'm considering making a thread for these but I don't know if it's worth it or how many people would read them. (Anyone who knows of my roleplay exploits here at YouChew may recognise one character here.)



Justin Allard – Squad leader. Holds the rank of Major. Bold, brash, sometimes doesn't think his plans through, and when in trouble, has a habit of making it worse. Is not the most athletic of figures but is still quite fit. From the north of England. Is sympathetic towards Damon.


Yuri Krasnov – Heavy gunner. Holds the rank of Corporal. From Russia. The brawn of the squad, like Martin in the sense he's slightly daft. Likes shooting things.


Stefan van der Voort – Sniper. From the Netherlands. Holds the rank of Colour Sergeant. A cynic, likes to keep himself to himself. A really good shot.


Damon Pafford – Medic. From north-western England. Holds the rank of Lance Corporal. Very well spoken. Doesn't like fighting, prefers to help others. Commonly gets frightened. Is somewhat naïve, and childish.


Several other unnamed SOLDIERS





JUSTIN, DAMON, and YURI as well as several SOLIDERS are in a trench, fighting the opposition. STEFAN is up in a pillbox sniping the enemy with surgical precision. YURI is carrying a M60 machine gun, JUSTIN a Sten gun, and STEFAN a M21 EBR rifle. DAMON carries a M9 pistol and many medical supplies. Bullets are flying everywhere. All four are behind the trench walls. All the men wear radio sets to allow them to converse.


JUSTIN peeks out from behind the wall, then ducks behind it again.



Looks like we're finally startin' to get somewhere! We're thinnin' them out well, not as many as there was before. Almost got 'em I think!



Ah, really? Was enjoyable experience. And was so short, too.



P-please, let's just get this done... I don't like fighting...


YURI sighs.



Damon, when will you learn not to be complete coward? You not appreciating concept of war. It takes time.



Y-yes, but-


EXPLOSION in front of group. Earth goes everywhere, showering the four. DAMON screams. JUSTIN looks a little shaken, YURI is unfazed.



Jesus! That was close.


Indeed. Was close. I think Damon is soil himself.


DAMON is cowering behind the wall, shaking and almost crying by this point.



N-not quite... but... a-almost...


JUSTIN looks sternly at YURI.



Yuri, lay off it, man. You know he can't help it.



Ah... he is right. Sorry, comrade. But I have point.


YURI turns round and pats DAMON'S shoulder a few times to console him. DAMON sniffles.



Right, let's have at 'em!


JUSTIN stands, and aims at the enemy. With one in his sights, he goes to shoot but his target is shot straight through the skull by STEFAN. JUSTIN looks annoyed and sits.



Or not, I forgot today was “be a buzzkill” day. Thanks, Stefan!



Yeah, fuck you too, Justin.



Uh... you two? I-I apologize if I'm... interrupting you, but... we kind of need to-


A stray bullet whizzes by DAMON, but misses. He squeals.



Agh. You really are hopeless, no?


DAMON looks close to crying again. JUSTIN looks over the wall and sees a charge.


Ah, balls. They're makin' a move!



Oh no they are not. Watch this, comrades!


YURI stands and opens fire on the enemy, shouting as he does. He kills several and the rest double back to their trench, STEFAN firing as they do. YURI stops, and stands triumphantly, going to sit down, looking at JUSTIN smugly.



You see! That is what happens when-


YURI is shot in the shoulder and sits quickly.



Ah, дерьмо! (Crap!)


DAMON panics and rushes to YURI's aid.



Oh no! Here, let me...


As DAMON nurses YURI's wound, JUSTIN stands and shoots at some more soldiers, killing two. STEFAN takes out three, with three bullets.



Wow Stef, you might be a loner but you're a damn good shot.



Heh. Thanks, I guess.



Guess sittin' holed up playin' shooters helps in the real world too, eh? Never woulda thought it.


STEFAN looks miffed again, and does not respond.



Oops, looks like I pissed 'im off again. Well ex-scuse me, princess.


YURI and DAMON laugh. STEFAN is busy trying to focus on a solider carrying a rocket propelled grenade launcher. He shoots and misses. He tries again but the clip is empty, and the soldier fires.



Ah, fuck! Watch yourselves, there's an RPG-


On this, STEFAN's voice is cut off by the explosion. The RPG hits to the left of DAMON, JUSTIN and YURI. DAMON quickly covers YURI, and JUSTIN covers himself, killing a few unnamed SOLIDERS and sending blood everywhere in their vicinity. DAMON squeals as the explosion happens. Some shrapnel hits JUSTIN but he is unaffected. He arises and looks at the carnage, a little unnerved.



Ah, God. I'd hate to be the one cleanin' that up.


DAMON gets off YURI, stands, looks at the resulting mess, and faints immediately. YURI looks at DAMON and sighs.



You big girl.



You guys alright down there? That caught me off guard.



Me and Justin, yes. Damon... less yes, but still yes.



Just about, yeah. He'll be fine Yuri, just keep an eye on 'im.


Yes, sir!



Well there goes any advantage we had.


JUSTIN sighs.



Stefan, you flippin' cynic. Don't you realise? If we hit 'em just as hard as they did us just now, any morale they've gained from it gets thrown down the shitter.



I don't understand. We don't have any RPGs for one-


You never do get it though do you Stef? But then again I wouldn't expect you to. You're a sniper, you don't understand strategy. I, however, do!


JUSTIN smiles gleefully. YURI looks fed up. DAMON begins to awaken.



Ahhh... what happened...?



Oh, nothing. I fear Justin is plannings something though.



Eh... always a bad sign...


He giggles. YURI laughs heartily.



So what is plan this time, eh? Charge and get us all killed in blaze of glory?


JUSTIN looks miffed.



No, ya moron. Watch this!


JUSTIN pulls out a flashbang grenade, and pulls the pin, throwing it with some force into the enemy trench. He waits until it enters before ducking behind the wall.



Fire in the hole!



Ah, блин... (Damn it...)


DAMON covers his ears and shuts his eyes. YURI and JUSTIN do likewise, as do the other alive SOLDIERS. STEFAN does not, having missed the throw. As the flashbang explodes, the enemy are blinded and deafened. STEFAN is affected too, covering his eyes and shouting.


JUSTIN, shouting to ALL

Now! Let's have 'em!


STEFAN, to himself

Shit, shit, shit, shit shit shit shit....


YURI, loudly, and sarcastically

Oh, I was right! Great!


DAMON, quietly

Stefan, did you... forget to... oh, he probably can't... hear me.


JUSTIN, YURI and the other SOLIDERS charge over the wall, guns blazing, at the enemy. DAMON follows behind the group. As the enemy realise what is going on, JUSTIN and co. have reached their trench and are pointing guns at them. Several soldiers in the trench have already been shot, and the enemy are at a significant disadvantage. All of the enemy attempt a surrender.


JUSTIN cheers. STEFAN, from a distance, has regained his vision somewhat and is surprised to see them giving up so easily.



Haha, see! We got 'em!



Yah, but you could have gotten us killed... why you always deviate from Alex's plans?



Because Alex is just like Stefan, he's a total-



I don't think you want to complete that sentence. I have the sniper rifle, remember?



And what use is that when you're half-blind?



I can see enough to shoot your fat ass, dammit.


JUSTIN sighs. DAMON giggles at this.



Fine, fine. Haway, lads, let's get these buggers sorted.


YURI, DAMON and co. round up and arrest the surrendering enemy. STEFAN radios to command, walking over from his pillbox.



This is Delta Squad to High Command, enemy line has been broken. We have multiple prisoners, and several casualties. Request immediate support, over...



Hah! We won. See? Is easy, when you havings advantage!



M-maybe... but I'm glad it's over... I... don't want to do this again...



Ah, fine. You be coward, is fine with me. Fighting not for everyone, I suppose. Besides, series like this need pansy character like you.


DAMON looks confused.



But I'm not... a flower...?


YURI sighs.



Ah, forget it. When we get back to base, drinks on me, eh?


DAMON nods and smiles.



That... would be kind.


STEFAN arrives, having radioed command, to help with the capture as the four wait for a helicopter to arrive.

This scene is more serious than the other one as it's in the middle of a fight, but I hope I still managed some light-hearted humour. I'd hope to continue this, and some fourth-wall breaks, as I write - that's the sort of atmosphere I want to go with for these scripts. 

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So this is sort of like the setup to a story I want to do, a backstory of the mythology behind a god, told from the perspective of said god:



It's really long and you may find it sort of banal or tedious. I wanted to try and capture the feeling of a land that was truly this untouched paradise that's slowly being sort of corrupted by a god-like being closely resembling human-kind (and is planned to be the inspiration for such in the future from when it takes place). Now it's not just one of those "humans are built to use and destroy everything including each other" kind of things, but basically it's going to all come to a head as a tragedy of too much ambition and reckless freedom. This is only nearly half the story of this one creature and I wrote this in about 2 days in a few hours so it's still in it's planning phase and somewhat sloppy. Anyway, critique is welcome I wont be offended as I do this kind of writing for fun anyway.

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Informational profile for some worldbuilding.

SIS (Sparkvernian Imperial Ship) Pax Sparkverania

Era: Late Interstellar Colonization Period
Built By: Koska Aerospace, Mislav Fleetbuilders
Type: Kazimir-class Supercruiser
Fate: Lost in deep space

Near the closing years of the Interstellar Colonization Period, the Imperial Ministry, underorders of the Tsar, commissioned both Koska Aerospace and Mislav Fleetbuilders on a collaborative project to construct an interstellar "Supercruiser", the first true military starship of the Sparkvernian Empire. Prior to this, interstellar colonial efforts were spearheaded by small to medium-sized frigates and shuttles, with small yet heavily armed scouting and expeditionary forces. The Tsar's government wanted to display the new dawn of Sparkvernian history and empire with the creation of the first major star cruiser. To display the beginning of the new golden age, the project ship was named the SIS Pax Sparkverania.

Following its completion, the christening ceremony of the Pax Sparkverania was one of the most heavily crowded events in Sparkvernian history. During its maiden voyage around all colonized territory, it temporarily served as a civilian liner for the social elite, and completely made its way through all of the most successfully colonized planets. It went into active military duty following this voyage's end, and spearheaded the expedition to the then-newly discovered Listal star system. Along the way, however, it lost contact with the Sparkvernian Homeworld, and vanished shortly thereafter. The Military High Command, and eventually the Imperial Ministry itself, tried everything they could to restore contact with it. Despite all efforts, they failed to locate the ship, and the Pax Sparkverania was lost in deep space.

Many Sparkvernians saw the event as an enormous tragedy, and at the very worst an omen that the end of the Empire as they knew it was drawing near. The Imperial Ministry and Military High Command considered it an embarrassing failure, and the Listal expedition a poorly coordinated farce. Official cause as to how the ship lost all communications is unknown, but many of the High Command suspected sabotage; they believed an underground insurgent group infiltrated the restricted areas of the ship during the civilian voyage and discovered how to fatally deactivate it. Since this event, Supercruisers were sparingly built and tightly monitored; additionally, no military starship was ever open to civilians again.

Four years after its disappearance, long-distance merchant ships and frigates claim to have seen the Pax Sparkvernia prowl through their trade routes, with its essential systems still active. Many believe that the ship was taken over by pirates or a rebellion group, but these claims are dismissed; despite these reported sightings, the ship never attacked any other vessel, military or civilian. The more superstitious believe the Pax Sparkverania to be possessed or cursed; its appearance is believed to be a grim reminder of imperial hubris, the fragility of civilization, or at the very worst a mark of destruction for witnessing vessels.

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I haven't written or done any sketch comedy since middle school, but recently I was asked by a few friends to start a sketch comedy group with them and decided to give it a shot again. Already I'm aware the dialogue probably needs work (I was planning on ad-libbing most of the dialogue) and the action details are a bit lengthy. Never wrote a screenplay before so any advice on anything (especially formatting) would be much appreciated.


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“...and that's why y'all should come on down to Schmitty's Super Service! All tires and oil checks are half off for this week only. See you then!” said Billy Bob, advertising Schmitty's between songs. It was late night, and the show for that day was almost over. They had one song left, and that was their newest, “Sittin' Too Long”, which Beach Bear had written a few days before. The large white bear sat in a soft recliner chair backstage, drinking a cola. Rolfe was also backstage, making small talk with the blonde. He looked towards him, smirking a bit.

“Ya know, for someone who wrote a song about sitting around and eating too much and tryin' to fix it, you sure don't seem to follow your own advice,” Rolfe sneered. Beach then reached over and smacked the snickering wolf on the back of the head.

“Shut your trap, you're not doing anything either,” he said, then drinking the rest of his sugary drink and crushing the aluminum can in his large, strong paw. “Now, the show starts in 3 minutes. You remember your part, right?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow.

Rolfe pointed a thumb at his own chest. “Of course I remember, Beach! Did you really expect me, Rolfe DeWolfe, to forget his shining moment, his extraordinary performance in a new song that no man has seen before, the song...the...so-ong...?”

“Well, you forgot the title of the song, so maybe you can understand why I'm worried, eh?” Beach replied, then laughing. “Oh well, we should head out,” he said, then groaning as he got up. Rolfe's face became a bright red color at the sound of the other man's groans. Beach looked over at him.
“You alright over there?”

“Uh, yeah. Just a little hot,” the wolf muttered, pulling at his shirt collar. He then stood up and followed Beach to the stage, a rather large one this time around. The air was crisp and cool in the building as bright, multicolored lights shone clearly on stage, they making the metal and plastic of their instruments shine. The other members of the band were all in position, chattering and laughing with glee about the new song they were going to perform in just a minute or so. The two males got to their positions, and prepared themselves, clearing their throats and taking deep breaths. Performing a new song was always nerve racking for everyone, since they never knew if a crowd would enjoy it or not. A moment later, the curtain before them slowly began to open.

“Good luck,” whispered Dook LaRue, the drummer, to Beach Bear.

The curtains then opened, revealing the band to the audience of 50 or so people. The animals were illuminated by the bright colorful lights shining on them, and the cheers of excited people filled the room. Beach Bear walked closer to the lights and grabbed a microphone, bringing it close to his face. His ocean blue eyes shifted, quickly looking around the room before he began speaking.

“Alright, folks, it's almost time for us to pack up our things and go, but, we've got a special lil' treat just for you. It's a song we haven't done for anyone else yet,” he explained. A few whistles and claps were heard from the audience. “...I wrote it just a few days ago, actually. It was my birthday, you see. I turned 22. Now, I may not be very old, per say, but...” he grabbed his electric guitar, and began to strum. “...I've been sittin' too long.” After he said this, the other members of the band looked at each other, and then began to play an ear-worm of a tune, while Beach began to sing.


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I have multiple scraps of stories on my Mac that I have started work on, many of which have stalled (and plenty that have just been deleted for shittiness).

One is a multi-chapter story of a pirate captain in the 18th century, which hasn't progressed beyond his childhood. Another is an (intentionally) cheesy circus horror short story, set in the late '70s, that, while having the most progress (I have an ending for it planned), has also had a whole scene removed for the sake of rewrite. Finally, currently in progress is a story about a TV actor and former Vietnam veteran in the early '80s, whose past is haunting him (which isn't helped by the fact that, the TV show he is the star of is a Cold War-era action show, playing a heroic character called "Chief Petty Officer Hardcore", with Rambo-esque action). The latter, I might note, is still developing; I plan to make it dramatic and grounded (though the "show within a show" portions are deliberately overblown, as, while it is supposed to be a popular TV show, it is also supposed to be cheesy and up to 11, in an '80s way).

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Currently working again on my pirate story. Due to hard drive problems, I had to rewrite the beginning by hand, and will hand-write most of it. A detail I didn't mention before is that it is in a furry world, and the protagonist is an alligator from the West Country (southwestern England; don't ask why there is an alligator in late 17th and early 18th century England).

The beginning scene, as a preview. Note that the story will be told from the main character, Captain Francis Ffarquhar's point of view, and is, basically, him telling his life story as he lays dying. Any suggestions regarding style are welcome:


Captain's Log, November 9, 1731, Atlantic Ocean.The St. George's Dragon had just engaged in battle with, and has successfully sunk and plundered a French frigate, with few survivors. However, this is not without a great cost to the Dragon, which has sustained considerable damage. Regretfully, during the engagement, I have received considerable wounds myself, and have doubts about my own survival. My hour may soon be approaching....

I set my log down on on the night stand, as I, Captain Francis, Ffarquhar, the most feared alligator on the high seas, a name feared in France and Spain, and wanted dead in England, lay in bed, my own mortality now apparent. Ha! Like the Crown will get that satisfaction now!

At my bedside, Benjamin, a valiant rattlesnake I had chosen as my first mate long ago, stood upright, with a grim expression on his face. Roger, a young fox pup whom, reminding me of myself as a young lad, I had chosen as my cabin boy, began to cry, gripping Benjamin tightly, to his dismay. The rest of my rowdy bunch of plunderers, fine chaps I had assembled over time, shed tears themselves.

The cool November sea air felt like ice over my dying, scaly body, the ship rocking gently in the seas, as if King Neptune were lulling me to an eternal sleep. "Argh, you lot'a twats, cry not for me, for I find it an annoyance. I hath lived a long, adventurous life on the seas, and die in glory, surrounded by a fine lot. Mr. Benjamin! Upon me passing, I pass command onto thee. As for the lot of thee, listen!...As I tell my story....in my final hours....."

I plan to briefly touch upon his childhood, and reserve more detail and more action for his life at sea. I intend for it to have a grimy and salty "wooden ships and iron men" aesthetic, intended to give the feeling of being on the high seas in the 18th century, covered in grime and salt.

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