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Congrats to all the winners! But beware: one day... ONE DAY... I will defeat all of you in a single blow -- Ragnarok style!



Also, on a patriotic note -- congrats to my buddy Gribbler. Poooooolska goooola!

Totally! I might actually write one, myself -- outside the contest, of course, just for shits and giggles. That or a court drama.

Hey, here's an idea: how about I submit you folks to a torture even greater than reading my unsettling, revolting, nauseating prose? How about YOU write something you're uncomfortable with?  I don't necessarily mean a New Weird/Bizarro prose. How about just any topic you find difficult -- or just not your cup of tea, in any way? Completely uninteresting to you. The polar opposite of your favorite topics. How about a genre that you hate and despise?

Do you guys think that could work? Would allowing parody make it easier -- or should it be a serious effort in order to make it a good challenge. It's definitely not my goal to alienate yet more people, I'm fully satisfied with scarring just the three of you for life

Thank you! It's been a pleasure taking part in the competitions next to such fine writers. I enjoyed both pieces so much I almost feel sorry for winning -- but only almost. VICTORY IS MINE! MINE!!! MIIIIINE!!!!



Again, thank you! This story felt pretty special to me: my first finished piece in a WHILE, the basic idea for which was stuck in my head for a while, but never took off the ground until now -- taking the story in places I wouldn't have imagined. Probably the creepiest thing I wrote to date. Though I had a period of writing horror fiction only -- I stayed away from naturalism in favor of vivid symbolic imagery. I'm not a fan of gratuitous sex in writing, either, and I usually walk around it. But this time it just felt right, the biological decay and sickness seemed like a natural reflection of the overall condition of the world. I hope the puns -- and the somewhat happy ending -- made up for the dark mood throughout the story. I'm not the gloomiest person alive -- and I take just as much pleasure in writing my own little twisted rom-coms and children's tales. That said, I have more stories in the vein of this one. I had a hard time stopping myself from cramming all the lore about the dystopian world I came up with into this one story -- and I did have my reservations about how it affects the flow of the story. So I'm happy you appreciate the stream-of-consciousness quality of it, Baron.

As for the next contests -- how long do I have to come up with a topic? Also, where do I find a list of topics previously used so that we avoid repetition?

[Best Character:]

Best Character: Almost a tie, but I'd have to say... Sinitrena's Telron. He's such a multi-faceted character, bit by bit we learn something new about him, something that contradicts what we thought of him, and the tension of uncertainty persists till the very end.
Best Plot: I seriously can't tell. The stories were so different but I absolutely loved the endings in both just as much and I honestly can't decide which I loved more: the melancholic, dramatic one or the darkly hysterical one.
Best Atmosphere: Sinitrena. The tension is incredible -- both in the reader's uncertainty of how this will play out and in the interactions. Through most of the story all they do is talk -- but it's a verbal clash of titans.
Best Setting: After some serious consideration... KConan. I have a soft spot for stories of the average blue-collar guy doing something that isn't everyone's dreamjob but has some fascinating lore to it.
Best Word Choice/Style: Sinitrena. I loved the lofty, theatrical language. I'm generally in favor of a more natural language -- but given the fact that this was written in the form of a play, and a historical drama rather than a modern story, I think the language was perfectly stylized (except one instance of using "whatever", maybe).
Most Opposite Pairing: KConan. Frank and Vince's contrasting personalities is what made the story. I just love characters that drive each other crazy -- or odd couples in which one is the reasonable type and the other one is all-out crazy. Your story has both -- and so earns both thumbs up from me.

Oh, and about the Great Dispensator in my story -- the character and the name was inspired by "The Great Masturbator", a painting by Salvador Dali. While the name Dispensator itself doesn't carry very obvious sexual connotations -- because the character is nothing more than a living fuel dispenser -- in terms of biology he's a male counterpart of a queen bee, whose sole purpose is mating, and the way he gathers oil and dispenses fuel is nothing short of pornographic. Also, I didn't imagine him intelligent enough to utter complex phrases -- but I could really see him yelling "FEED!" when he starts dispensing the fuel. A virtual beer to anyone who gets the movie reference.

She shrugged. Her massive shoulders went up and down in what looked like orogeny.
"Take any pretty girl, slap some make-up on her, top it off with a wig -- and there you go! Holly Wood, in the flesh!", she smiled triumphantly, raising her eyebrows, arched like hairy rainbows. "And when that girl drinks herself to death, as well, you just throw her away discreetly and repeat the whole process again. And again! It's sad how all those Holly Wouldbe's were her perfect doubles in film and in life alike. All of them eaten by the machine, one by one. Beauty leads to fame, fame leads to pressure, pressure leads to depression, depression leads to substance abuse, substance abuse leads to death. Death, in turn, leads only to re-casting -- and very rushed surgeries. Half of these girls died of sepsis as soon as the shooting wrapped. Some of them midway through -- and there were three different Hollies in one movie. They didn't even give them proper burial -- because officially they weren't even there. Why would they if Holly Wood was alive and well? Right?"
All of this sounded bogus. It seemed too wild to be true. But then again: what do I know? I only saw what the camera wanted to see me -- and there's a whole world around it I never got to see; on and off the set. The world everywhere around was a filthy and evil place -- so why would an industry right in the middle of it, immersed in it and catering to its basest needs, be any different from it. Dark and dangerous. Greedy and unrestrained. Devouring gluttonously whatever gets in its way and carelessly defecating -- not taking the time to burry its steaming feces.
"And nobody... got suspicious?"
"Look who's pointing fingers now!", she snorted. "Yeah, eventually things got out. An anonymous tip here, a half-burnt body with a surprisingly well-preserved Holly Wood face thrown out in the desert there -- and they started putting two and two together... But business is business... A 1 with six 0's is still more than four -- and so things were hushed down for a very long time. Until, of course, they started getting out of hand. The demand was too high. Nobody cared about the truth anymore! Nobody cared for law or justice! They just wanted more Holly Wood. And so they got it! More movies than they could watch in a lifetime. A movies, B movies, C movies! It didn't take long till they started making pornos -- and for the really fucked up folks: Holly Wood snuff flicks!
"Good Lard", I gasped; an old religious invocation that I'd often used as curseword. Now, however, I felt a true divine fear.
"You think that's bad?", she laughed. "Not even close! The whole thing kept going south -- till it wasn't about movies anymore. Who needs movies when you can have Holly Wood, in the flesh, strip for you or fuck you for a few bucks?"
"Good Lard...", I winced yet again -- the difference this time was that this particular tidbit wasn't news to me at all...
She noticed that right away.
"Jackpot!", she grinned obscenely, baring all her crooked, yellow and green teeth. "You naughty, naughty boy!"
I'd had no idea about the extent of the fraud I had been such a fan of. At the time it felt... special -- in some deranged, twisted way, but still. Holly Wood, here in my house. A gift to me for my Sweet Sixteen. My dreamgirl -- to whom I would gift my virginity. A sweet dream I was comfortable with never coming true. And when it did -- against all odds -- I was terrified. Because I wanted it to be perfect -- and they say it never is the first time. It's awkward and clumsy... That's not what I wanted for my Holly Wood.
The reality of it was even worse than I feared -- for the both of us.
I got nervous. There she was -- my dreamgirl, in all her glory. And so the one thing in my overlard body that still had the ability to lift itself and stand straight... went flaccid -- and then receded into my abdomen in fearful shame. But erectile dysfunction is no stranger to Overlards -- and so there are always remedies at hand: strong, quick and effective. And so, within seconds by combined powers of chemistry -- in the form of a blue tablet -- and biology, there it was again! purple and throbbing, varicose veins pulsating like neons! Until now painfully unimpressed, Holly Wood got visibly terrified. She wanted to run away -- but the Feet tripped her. The Hands were quick to seize her -- and the joint telepathic power of my parents, grandparents, uncles and cousins, all of which gathered for the occasion of my first defloration, forced her in my armless and helpless embrace and impaled her onto my shaft.
It hurt -- in every way possible
We didn't fit. That's something I knew -- long before this happened. Being right hurt. We were worlds apart -- and feeling inferior hurt. But nothing felt worse than the actual physical pain of coitus. Our anatomies differed too much for it to ever work. She writhed and thrashed in pain. I screamed at the top of my lungs. She started hitting me, scratching my face. She tugged at my ears and bit me -- all in the clueless effort to set herself free. I don't blame her. She couldn't have known it was them -- the cheering crowd -- that held her with the power of their minds, forcing my gruesome erection deeper into her warmth. Eventually, I lost all feeling. It only felt numb and cold. I experienced no more pain as she slid up and down, up and down, up and down. I didn't mind the slaps and punches, the scratches, the bruises, the bite marks -- nor losing whole chunks of flesh. The one thing aching the most was my heart. It sunk deeper and deeper with each blow -- and each new burst of laughter.
In the midst of all that I think I felt rather than heard the soft, gooey snap -- right where our two bodies became one against both our wills.
A fountain of blood gushed out of my lower abdomen. Blood and urine. Holly Wood fell to the floor. I heard a thud -- and then a choir of panicked cries. I felt Hands all over my body: feeling, pusshing, pressing, pumping. I shut my eyes tight -- as if that could stop the life leaking out of me -- and wailed as if that had any soothing effect. When I couldn't screem -- I opened my eyes one last time. The last thing I remember seeing was Holly Wood flying out the window; her scream as she plunged to her death four miles below.
Then there was nothing.
"I killed her", I whispered, shaking my head. "Whoever she was, I killed her... I killed a human being..."
"Oh, cheer up!", she grimaced. "It was suicide on her part long before you came into play. In that line of work these things happen and she knew it! There are accidents, there are misunderstandings... But those stupid whores never really think about it. They dive in and hope for the best! They just don't give a shit."
The first thing I remember upon waking up was the odor of feces. A familiar aura of methane that no air-freshener could overpower. I couldn't open my eyes, so I didn't know where I was. I was too weak to talk or move.
But I lived...
I was disappointed. Angry! I survived -- against my hopes. Against my will. I wanted to die. I deserved to die -- even if what happened wasn't all my fault. The organized coitus was not my idea. Not my plan. But it was my dream. My sweet fantasy -- that my loving telepathic parents dug out from the depths of my mind and, powerful as they were, they decided to make it come true. Had I not dreamt it, none of that would've happened. So in the end, the fault was mine -- and I welcomed death when it came to me.
It took the form of four glorious, spear-wielding Octanes.
When I opened my eyes, the view was unfamiliar -- and hard to make sense of. I'd been no stranger to blackout and waking up in places unknown -- but nothing of this kind. There was always some azimuth. Some pieces of architecture. Gold, silver and diamonds -- like suns and stars guilding the sailors. And a bunch of helpful Hands, who'd lift me and carry me home.
I wasn't home.
From the darkness that I confused for inexistence four figures emerged. Four tall, lean women -- with fiery red eyes. Sickly thin -- and yet strangely beautiful, muscles wrapped around their bones like braids, black oil shining on their skins. Quite a view. But I saw the looks on their faces. I saw the spikes in their hands. And numb as I was, I could feel them pierce my body when they finally decided to attack.
But the few pokes felt almost... subtle...
They punctured my skin, dug a little into the flesh -- but never hit the organs. They didn't intend to kill me -- as any practical being would do, seeing a stranger inside their realm -- or even to really harm me. As soon as they'd established that I am completely harmless -- or worse still, utterly helpless -- they left me and went away. They walked away -- and then, returning later that day, traversing the very same path, they passed me by with indifference. They marched proudly, eyes fixed straight ahead. Four of them -- tall and lean, completely naked, their bodies covered with nothing but oil. A regular day of labor. They walked right past me. Why? I'm not sure. Maybe they didn't deem me a threat?
Death shrugged at me and went away.
"Why all the hate...?", I asked. I musted up enough strenght to express anger and condemnation. "What did they ever do to you? What did Holly do? She died before any of us got to know about her!"
"You still don't get it, you clueless puppy...", she chuckled.
"What? Your boyfriend liked her more than you?", I risked. It felt good. It felt... easy. As if words dipped in sarcasm just slid off the tongue, with no painful friction. I sounded less raspy and more hissy. Like the legless, armless snake that I indeed was. "He kept comparing her to you and telling you to shape up?", I snorted. She rubbed off on me, I guess, and I wanted to take a few jabs at her while she's in a good mood. "Or did he order one for the night and you happened to walk in on them? Was she better at it than you?"
Her expression changed abruptly -- as if skipping all the intermediate frames -- from calm amusement to fury. Her eyebrows lowered and drew closer together. Her nostrils furled and and her lips pressed firmly against one another, moving from the left side of her face to the right.
"NO ONE... WAS BETTER... THAN ME!", she growled. "I WAS A SEX-MACHINE!"
I froze.
And then I let out the most sincere laughter in a while.
I've actually lost count of the days, but it must've been a couple of years since that day when I landed, face down, in a valley of shit. That must've been the last time I laughed. I laughed, because I couldn't cry. I ran out of tears. So what was I to do -- after I was cast out from the paradise four miles above and thrown into hell itself. After four armed scouts just left me be!
So when death laughed me in the face -- I laughed back.
Lard knows how long I just lay there, staring at the sky shrouded with a coat of clouds so thick that I couldn't tell night from day. So I might've lain there for months, waiting for death -- but it seemed it had better things to do in nicer places than this. Sadly, there was nothing I could do. My life wasn't in my hands -- because I never had hands to begin with. No hands to end my life with. And so I lay there: dirty, bruised, broken -- but alive and breathing, my aching heart still beating and my stomach still digesting. Mostly itself, though -- and the thick coat of fat accumulated through the years of binge eating. Pizza. Hamburgers. Hotdogs. Spaghetti. Chips. Fries. Macaroni and cheese. All deep fried. Cake. Chutneys. Puddings. Ice-cream. Donuts. Waffles. Pies. Apple pies. Cherry pies. Blueberry pies. From actual fruit, too -- which got pretty expensive when the whole world beneath turned into an ocean of smog. But when you're rich you can make things happen.
In a way, in those dire days I fed off of memories.
"Oh, I get it", I laughed. "All those Holly Woods put you out of business... With their young, firm bodies and their pretty faces they made up for the lack of sexperience", I had to laugh at that silly pun.
"You dumb fuck... ", she rolled her eyes. "I was ONE OF THEM! The BEST of them all!"
"I'm sorry, but-- ", I hesitated. This was shaping up to be the best comedy night in my life -- and I was in the front row! " --you barely look like a woman at all."
"It's the drugs... ", she sighed.
"I've seen what drug abuse does to people. Top-shelf heroin, enhanced LSD, illegal novelties... It gets really ugly, it does, but not THIS ugly..."
"I'm not talking recreational drugs, you idiot", she quipped.
"Steroids?", I suggested. That'd make sense. Whatever happened to her had hormone imbalance written all over it in bold letters.
"Nope.", she shook her head. "Beautox."
"What?"
"They discovered this toxin... in the butt glands of some super-poisonous fish or some such... that literally makes you beautiful. I'm no physician, I don't know the how and why, but it works. It messes with the muscles, the bones, everything... The short of it is that it can make anyone -- literally anyone -- into a beauty. You just had to visualize what you want to look like -- and bam! before you know it, you're it!" Her eyes bulged and her eye-brows travelled halfway up her forehead. "So now everyone could look like Holly Wood! No expensive surgeries, no make-up! Just shoot up some beautox in one of your buttocks", she laughed at the clever rhyme, and I cackled along. " --and voila!", she clapped her gigantic, sausage-fingered hands. "It actually worked with guys, too!"
"Ugh...", I cringed.
"Trust me, you wouldn't be able to tell."
"So...", I hesitated after a brief pause. I did not want to go further into that particular topic. "What happened to you? Overdose?"
"I wish!", she laughed. "It's not the prettiest sight, you start looking more and more like a cheap plastic doll. Your skin gets smoother and shinier, your smile tenses, your eyebrows go up till your eyes can't close anymore... But anything's better than withdrawal!", she looked down at herself.
It's true. Beautox, TV, sugar -- they're all drugs. Sweet pleasures you need a dosage of every day. Without it, you deteriorate and succumb to disease and madness. I remember the endless days in the valley. At one point I turned my head around -- which was the full extent of movement that I was capable off -- and tried to chew on the feces. They had to have some nutrients in them, given how quickly food passes through our devolved digestive tracts. There were bits of nuts in them, too. But I couldn't. I deserved all the humiliation life threw at me -- and I should have swallowed that bitter, shit-flavored pill -- but I didn't have enough will-power for active repentance. So I merely resigned myself to whatever fate befalls me. I chose to do nothing. I lay there as my body chowed away on itself.
Eventually, I was reduced to a skeleton in a huge puddle of skin.
"So you reverted to what you looked like before?"
"Oh, fuck you, skinny bitch!", she barked at me. "No, that's not what I looked like. I was a decent looking girl. Nothing special, but not ugly. A little flabby here, a little saggy there. Not curvaceous enough, maybe... But I fucked like a prima donna. I had talent! So I decided to take it up a notch. I took the shot -- and the rest is history. I got quite popular, actually -- because while a talentless hottie always beats a gifted Peggy Sue, she will ultimately lose when faced against an identical hottie with actual skills. I was the best and everyone wanted me. They couldn't get their hands off me!"
At some point -- somewhere between madness and death -- I found peace. I lost all feeling in my body. I felt no more pain. No pangs of hunger. No burning where my penis once was. With no anguish and no needs, I stopped craving death.
And then, one day, I decided to live.
It was a day like any other -- and they do look identical down there, one just as miserable and sad as the other -- when the same four workers went past me, just as they did so many times before. But then the last one flinched. She looked at me -- and her face changed: from superior indifference to surprise, from surprise to anger. I don't know why. Maybe she smelled fear in me -- or maybe the will to live? Maybe they left me before because they knew death would come to me anyway, so there was no point to waste their time on me. Now, determined to live, I was a threat -- a vague one at the time, with no real idea what to do with myself, but still... So they all pointed their spears at me -- and poked and poked and poked. I no longer felt pain at that point -- but I felt them piercing my skin, and I felt blood. Thick, black blood that'd take days to leak out of my body and kill me -- but if I didn't do anything, that's what would happen, sooner than later.
So I grabbed their spears.
Yes, I had no limbs. Not even a tiny stump sticking out of my shoulder, much less an actual arm -- with fingers. But I had the power telekinesis. Long unused, some of it must've accumulated somewhere in my brain. It's hard to say how it works -- whether it's like invisible hands -- but it does. You just think of doing something -- such as wrestling the spears out of the workers' hands -- and it... happens. You think of pushing them away (rather than killing them with the spears; I caused one too many death as it were and I was not going to make it a custom) -- and they're down on their backs, scrambling to get up. Meanwhile, I took all four spears and... got creative! By means of telekinesis rather than physical strenght, I wrapped my loose skin -- spread on the ground like a ruined tent on the scaffolding of my ribs -- around the spears' blunt tips till it formed four firm knots. Thus I formed four stiff apendages -- stilts of a kind -- which I had an amazing control over. I could move them around and swings them. I could shoo away the workers -- who weren't surprised or impressed by my provisional invention. They were just furious -- and hell-bent on getting me.
Then I spread my "arms" and "legs" on the ground, thus forming an X -- and thrust with all my might, pushing myself off the ground, twisting in mid-air -- and landing on all fours.
"It was a good job. The pay was mediocre -- but I liked doing it. Plus, I got to meet important people. I fucked rock stars, directors, CEO's, politicians... And I travelled a lot!"
I ran and ran -- awkward at first, not used to quadrupedal movement (or any movement at all), trying to learn it while trying not to get caught -- but I got a hang of it, I think. My sprint wasn't classy -- but it was efficient. I pushed on, flexing muscles I didn't know I had; some never once used, some almost completely devolved. I ran and ran -- straight ahead -- and in the corners of my eyes I could see more and more workers joining the chase. None of them asked the question: why? -- they just saw a strange creature en gallop and so they did the intuitive thing: try to get it. They threw their spears at me. Some barely scratched me, some grazed me a little. Some still managed to hit me. But I just pulled them out, using telekinesis -- and kept running, disregarding the pain, which I somehow could feel again. It burned like when they breathed fire at me (a usual skill for someone feeding on gas), even if the dirt and feces I was covered in protected me partially. They just melted them into my body. After a while I was just a brick of coal with an unbreakable will to live.
But I got out. I don't remember how. I just did. I guess good things happen?
"I fucked some real higher-ups in my day!", she grimaced. "I'm sure the Peggy Sue that I used to be would've never gotten that high! AND those people were paying extra -- for the easiest job there is!", she squeaked with joy. "OK, so it sounded a little easier than it looked -- and there were some complications -- but boy was it fun! So then I got a little carried away... and I... well... I broke something... It got really messy! They got bloody pissed!, she laughed at the recollection. "I was out the door before they asked for a refund... A girl's gotta watch her back, right? These bastards would've killed me.", she exclaimed. "So I had to run. I couldn't count on my pimp, because he would've killed me as well. Apparently they were his best clients. So I bolted -- and then I lay low. I figured that once the dust settles and the bruises and skin cuts heal I could go back -- as a completely new Holly. The dumb fucks wouldn't be able to tell, because we all looked the same. Buuuut I waited too long and beautox wore off -- and I had no way to get some more -- and... I turned into this", she sighed heavily, poiting both her index fingers at her Behemoth-like body. "It was brutal... When you lay beautox off, you don't go ugly bit by bit, day by day, week by week until you turn into your former self. No. It's like your underpants snapping on your ass. Bam! You're Quasimodo! And THEN your get even worse. Your bones twist, your tissue swells... You get fatter even though you don't eat..."
My jaw kept dropping lower and lower.
"Wait...", I interrupted her. "What was that botched job exactly?"
"Ooh, look who got all horny all of a sudden!", she grinned. Suddenly, at her lowest point, her mood shifted dramatically. That was a talent I could be jealous of.  "You want me to talk dirty? You want me to tell you stories?", she purred, pressing her index finger against her lower lip. I wasn't sure whether it was just gross or hilarious.
Or sexy -- in a very, very, VERY weird way.
"Go on", I said, if only to stop my non-existent erection. But I felt a strange tingling somewhere else...
"Well, if you really need to know... I had to take a boy's virginity", she smiled, with a sense of professional pride. "What could be easier, right? You just sit on his little weener, move up and down, moan a little -- and he's there, all happy and blushing!"
My eyes widened -- which she took as sign to go on.
"But this guy... first he gets shy -- and I think to myself: oh great, now how do I put it up? I hurt my wrist the other day, and while I'm the goddess of sex, I literally suck at blowjobs... Heh heh, get it?", she winked. "So anyway... then it got even worse... but then they gave him some pill -- and damn did things turn around! THE! BIGGEST! DICK! EVER! I was fucking terrified! But they sort of screwed me onto him -- and things really went crazy from there. I wasn't going to give him any special treatment -- you know, just doing the job, take the cash and go home -- but this was fucking great! Sooo I gave him the full package. No kissy-kissy, that's my rule -- but other than that, I went all out. Screaming, scratching, biting, hair-pulling... All that kinky stuff! I mean, not REALLY kinky, I've done weirder things! Shit you wouldn't believe! None of that this time. Just regular all-out crazy sex." She paused and smiled to herself. She zoned out there for a minute.
The sudden silence was terrifying. I took ages -- but finally I mustered up the courage to speak.
"I...I thought it hurt you..."
"Are you kidding me? Best... sex... EVER!"
"I-it was?"
"Oh yeah!", she asserted with that confident tenor. "I even kept a 'little' memoir!", she pointed to a pendant around her monstrous neck; an obscure, dark shape, diving into her cleavage. I couldn't make it out. "Wanna see?"
"No, thanks...", I refused, shyly.
I really didn't. The memory of the last time I saw it haunted me to this day.
"Oh well, it doesn't look that good anymore, anyway... All dried up and small... Like a fig.."
I smiled. She was funny. I smiled and it almost hurt. But for the first time I was... calm... Happy, maybe? Pieces of a gigantic puzzle kept falling into place. Someone else's memories over-rode my own. Rewrote them from scratch. Re-painted them -- in brighter colors.  After almost dying in an ocean of feces, then again at the hands of the fiercest creatures alive; evading death by burning, crushing, shooting, stabbing, beating -- and boredom -- I was reunited with not one, but three souvenirs from a life long gone, all connected to one another. It's almost as if I travelled back in time -- back to the moment when we first met.
Perfect strangers -- stuck in a perfect moment...
"Hey!", she asked after a long, looong pause. Darkness fell again and credits were rolling up the screen. "Wanna fuck?"

THE END

[FAIR WARNING: the story features naturalistic and grotesque descriptions of sex, violence, human physiology and strong language. Proceed at your own discretion.]

Ok, so at long last -- here's my entry! Just short of 10.000 words. I dare ya!

FAIR WARNING: the story features naturalistic and grotesque descriptions of sex, violence, human physiology and strong language. Proceed at your own discretion.

THE OLD SWITCHEROO

by Maciek "Fitz" Fitzner

The lights were still on -- plural being a mere courtesy here: there was just one measly, grease-covered lightbulb, dangling from the ceiling like a suicide. But here, in this room, that fretful, glimmering light made all the difference. It was symbolic. A clear, if slightly faded signal:
It wasn't time yet.
The screen -- still blank. A mere cloth, nailed at the corners of the wall; more gray than it was white, and more yellow than it was gray. Wrinkled, torn and stained, with blotches of colors you don't even see these days any more. The room -- an eerie cube: small, yet strangely, almost absurdly tall. Its floor slanted uncomfortably, sloping towards the screen -- a part of default design, known for millenia before the movies' invention, but either zealously overdone or, more likely, botched by inept hands and poor materials. Hard to point a finger. Resources were in short supply: there wasn't nearly enough of anything, much less anything of any substantial quality. Similarly, good craftsmanship was scarcer than gold -- and gold was by now just a myth. If you've ever seen it -- it must've been in the movies. Hell! Statistically, you're lucky if you meet more than two people in a day.
Though it's safer if you don't.
The movies were one of those places where you could be alone -- funny (or sad) as that may sound... A dozen rows of seats. A dozen seats in each row. One hunded and forty-four. A solid company, you might say. True veterans, the hardships they'd gone through forever imprinted on the their bodies. Their skeletons crippled by impossible burdens. Their uniforms filthy and reeking, dust and bacteria feeding off of sweat and whatever else the body might've involuntarily released. Blood, even. Most of them -- wounded; their skin punctured and sliced, their yellow, spongy flesh of polyurethane peeping out.
Why does senseless violence against the helpless surprise me any more?
I guess it's this place. To hell with everything else -- but this... this small room with one agonizing lightbulb and a soiled sheet, very liked robbed from someone's deathbed, for a screen... is to me a sanctuary... A temple, in which violence is forbidden. A church where people gather to commune -- or contemplate in the privacy of their own seat. A place that teaches you about life -- including death, war, destruction and disease. But within these walls they're just ideas. Inverted images from the outside world seeping through a hole in the wall. Plato's cave. This is my hermitage, where I feel safe... Where I'm---
-- alone?
I didn't notice the other person at first. I mean, I did -- but it took me a minute to realize that it's a human being. Asleep in my chair, I merely twitched -- and opened just one eye -- when something crashed right next to me, to my left. Things -- all kinds of things -- fall through the roof everywhere every day, and as we've already established, this place is, despite my best wishes, no more special than any other. So I was saying... I assumed that the unexpected guest was a piece of concrete, a meteor or some such bulk of mineral mass that pierced the ceiling. It didn't kill or hurt me -- so I did the only reasonable thing: ignored it completely.
   Until, that is, the mountain turned around and looked at me.
   We exchanged a brief, silent stare, our faces almost identical in expression: that of apathy and indifference, underlined with scorn; truest disgust, on one hand -- but also an optimistic presumption that neither is a threat to the other. Lodged in their seat -- their THREE seats, to be precise ("My name is Legion, for our buttocks are many") -- like a meteor fallen, the person was not very likely to get up again and hurt me. I, in turn, was neither much of a snack -- nor did I pose any real threat to anyone but myself (though even that is a stretch). After all, there was a reason why I pretty much lived here -- in this very room, in this very chair. It wasn't because I LIKED it here -- though I truly did! -- it was because I wasn't able to leave. I couldn't so much as get up. I was stuck. In this chair. In this spiteful, unyielding body. Too weak to get up -- and weaker by the minute -- and yet too strong to die.
   The darkness -- so sudden and so complete -- both scared and soothed me. Poof! Everything disappeared. I ceased to physically exist -- for the awareness of my own body rested almost exclusively on what I could see. And when the screen lit up in the dark, it looked like the light at the end of the tunnel -- which I was mere yards away from.
   Almost there.
It felt like the sun on my face -- a sensation as sweet as only a memory can be. An old memory of better times long gone. A deja vu of sorts -- but not quite. It wasn't merely an obscure and unclear sensation of recollection. This was no cranial glitch. No loose association. This... this was a solid souvenir from a different time -- another life, even -- somehow salvaged by wanton fate and returned to me. An artifact that barely aged -- and lost not one bit of its beauty. Seeing it now -- older and bitterer as I was, burdened by knowledge, experience and expectaction -- struck me just as intensely as it did when I first lay my eyes upon it. I just sat there and watched, with child-like awe.
The very first Holly Wood movie...
Oh, I've seen movies before. Watching movies was all I ever really did. I've seen them all: new and old alike, full features and shorts. Comedy, musical, drama... Thrillers, horrors, war flicks... Science fiction, fantasy, history... Black & white or color... 2D, 3D, HD... Movies from all over the world -- with captions or overdubs. Good movies, bad movies... Movies so bad they're good! Movies so weird they're brilliant!
But none ever felt quite the same as "Young Sweet Charou"...
It was by no means a masterpiece -- neither scipt-wise, nor in terms of the visuals. The story was rather uninspired, the camera-work -- stiff and static. It was the acting, the characters that really set it out. Exaggerated, yes, flamboyant even -- and at the same time so one-dimensional. There were no shades, no facets to them. No depth whatsoever. Everyone was nice and kind and sweet -- and Charou herself so naive. A flaw to a connoisseur, perhaps, to me it was the movie's greatest virtue. The sheer, unpretentious simplicity, with no filthy undertones. Smiles were smiles and words meant only what they said.
But what made it the true classic -- and my beloved film of all -- was Holly Wood herself.
It was her cinematic debut -- and you could tell that from miles away. She was awkward and over-zealous in her movement and line delivery. Barely a woman at the time, she spoke and acted like a child: big-eyed, pouty, with rosy cheeks and a voice of a cheap toy doll. But it worked. She was mesmerizing in her clumsy ways. Her face, switching between expressions of joy and endless suprise, was all I focused on -- and all I could think of. That child-like face on top of a body still in bloom -- bright and radiant, with only subtle curves; delicate like porcelain. Enticing in the most innnocent way. The dream girl for a young boy that I was back then.
Oh, how simple things used to be...
"You stupid whore! You ruined my life!"
I blinked, startled by the inhuman cry: a growl red with anger and green with hate. It was the person... the thing... sitting next to me. A woman, actually -- or so I would suppose, based on two greasy pigtails I noticed sticking from the top of her skull like wilted tufts of grass. She took a deep breath and continued berating Holly Wood in the foulest of words I'd heard. She went on for a minute or two, her voice getting louder -- and less intelligible. In the end, it was just a steaming stream of bile with no sign of meaning or syntax. Eventually, she ran out of breath and saliva. She let out the last few hoarse grunts -- and at long last she shut up.
And then she looked at me.
A ghastly woman she was. Her age was harder to determine than her sex -- my initial presumption about it based solely on her wearing a pink tank-top (an apt name in this case, as it might well serve as a tarpaulin for a tank). A ghastly creature -- regardless of gender. Almost no facial features; all lost under a thick coat of fat, cascading down her whole body. Small, hateful eyes peeping through a gap so narrow one might wonder what kind of widescreen strandard would accomodate her. Lips so vulgar; the upper one so stiff and swollen that it completely sealed off the nostrils. She breathed with effort -- with gasps so shallow and so short there's no wonder I couldn't hear her.
"Like her, dontcha?", she grunted.
At first sight, one might even mistake her for one of the Overlards. She had all the requisite features. The morbid obesity. Almost no trace of facial features -- the only feature of that shapeless mass being ugliness. Trust me, I've seen a lot, but they still rank highest. Oh yes, they were something else. A different breed entirely. A new race -- or even a sepratate species, far removed from the regular folk. A higher chain of evolution. A higher class, living the high life -- both metaphorically and literally! They led a life of wealth and fortune in a city of gold, called Overly Hills -- a fortress of opulence, separated from the mediocrity around it with an impenetrable diamond dome. A pearl in the ocean of mud that was the world around it -- a world of misery and jealousy. A greedy little world that kept drawing closer and closer -- pushing their plebeian faces against the transparent glassy surface -- just to take a peak at the splendor. The city of gold had to guard itself from their dirty looks and their filthy, sticky fingers staining the diamond globe. And so it moved -- somewhere where the common man couldn't reach it: into the sky, that is! It took off, lifted by jet engines -- and soared four miles into the air, so that they'd never see a dirty face or a rainy day again.
Expensive as living on such airborne island was, they could aford it -- and more. They were so wealthy -- with accounts overflowing with money left behind by their greatgreatgreatgreatgreatgrandfathers -- that they didn't have to work any more. And they didn't! For the past twelve generations none of them moved a finger. They just sat around, doing nothing.  Sleeping. Socializing. Indulging in substance abuse and promiscuity. Staring at the sky all day -- taking ultraviolet in with no moderation at all -- or the clouds below. The latter -- white during the day, pinkish as the the evening wore on -- made them hungry by association with cotton candy. Or popcorn. So they had some -- and coke and a movie with that.
They loved Holly Wood -- and the film industry loved them right back. It was for Overlards that they churned out one flick after another. Results varied, of course. The quality of writing quickly deteriorated -- from the poor story that the original Holly Wood movie was to no story at all. Then there were remakes -- of every movie ever made -- starring Holly Wood. Whether she fit the role was completely irrelevant. She even did movies that had no female roles whatsoever! Then came remakes of all Holly Wood movies themselves -- again, starring Holly Wood. Remakes of remakes. Sequels. Prequels. Requels. Dequels. Inquels, even (full features explaining what happened between the scenes in some previous Holly Wood movie). What those movies lacked in substance, they made up in quantity. More films would be shot in a day than anyone could watch in a week. Unless, of course, one gave up on social life, had one's meals in front of the tv, and never left one's seat to shower or urinate.
But Overlards gave up on all that centuries ago.
Whatever you might've heard about them -- it's all true. Whatever cruel joke -- it doesn't measure up to the joke they were themselves. Their bodies evolved through the decades of sedentary lives. Their muscles withered, allowing for a more even distribution of fat. They lost all hair, too -- that on their scalps, their eyebrows, their hamster cheeks and triple chins, their armpits, trappped under the slabs of arms, and last but not least, the pubic area, squished between two mountain-like thighs. Eventually, they lost those, too. Unused, unneeded, their limbs first shrunk -- and then fell off altogether.
And then, instead of dying, they evolved into separate entities.
Hands and feet -- running around on their own, independently from the body. Not very smart. Just enough to get by. Like pets, if you will. Or little servants. Because while they were detached from the Overlards' bodies -- physically and neurally -- there was a mental link. They controlled their severed limbs through telepathy and telekinesis. The hands fed them, if requested, then wiped their greasy mouths -- and then, after the food slid through their devolved bowels, they washed their flabby asses clean and patted them dry -- without transmitting the disgusting feeling of stickiness and moisture under their fingertips back to the master's brain. They'd be there twenty-four hours a day to fan away the occasional -- or should I say frequent --- flatulence. It is an irony... Overlards could control everything but their sphincted activity. Everything in and out sight -- the hands, the feet running errands... They could switch TV channels with their minds... Hell! Overly Hills itself was held in mid-air largely thanks to their telekinesis -- the rest being powered by engines running on methane: a resource that OH seemed to never run out of...
A small cloud of flatulence shook me out of my reverie. But no, she wasn't an Overlard. She was hydious in every way, just like them -- but not in the least so suavely sleazy. Not very tan, either. She had hair -- few, and not well taken care of, either, but still... And arms! Vast blobs of stale rice pudding with loaf-like hands and sausage fingers. And legs: two sturdy logs, capable of carrying all this weight around.
"You like that tight little ass of hers, dontcha?", she jeered. "That hot, skinny ass..."
Oh, I've seen skinnier. I've seen bodies thin and slender beyond belief. They weren't, however, chiseled by good nutrition and aerobic. They were shaped by dirth and toil. Half-starved, unsure of the next day. A vast valley spread below that airborne metropolis of decadent opulence. A land of filth and decay. An endless, barren earth that hasn't borne a fruit in ages. An inescapable depression of misery that promised nothing but death. This heart of darkness lay directly below Overly Hills, dripping with hatred, lust -- and fecal matter. While the former two were the valley's own -- a distillate of humiliation and no moral boundaries -- the latter came from above. A precipitation of excrement fell to earth at noon every day, when the chutes of OH's sewer system opened four miles above: a monsoon shower of diarrhea, a post-constipation hailstorm of eyeball-sized projectiles -- or a regular bombardment of soft, half-digested chunks bound with bile and encrusted with nuggests of indigestible snacks (peanuts and such); hardly deadly, but not something one would want to get in the way of. The valley itself -- a flat, empty crater -- offered no shelter: no caves, no burrows, no rocks to crawl under -- but the inhabitants of this dire realm got by incredibly well. The houses they built -- a massive ghetto of small, conjoined huts -- not only withstood the daily showers, but grew sturdier because of them. How did they build those? With what? Trees? What trees? While the manure coating the land far and wide seemed like the perfect ground for any vegetation, the sheer amount  of it that came in those daily supplies stifled any attempt at growth. Hence, there hasn't been a tree down there -- nor a flower, nor a single blade of grass, even -- in the past two-hundred years. Similarly, any larger body of solid mineral -- chunks of which you could put together or grind into an easy to shape, quick-dry paste -- was buried deep beneath the ever-thickening layer of guano. As a result, they had to resort to the only building material available: that is, feces. It was free and abundant -- and quite firm once dried and baked. The many colors -- from yellow through green all the way to coal-black with intestinal blood -- and various consistencies -- ranging from liquid to rock-hard -- offered a wide array of architectural and stylistic possibilities. They made orange bricks and green mortar. Some had blue plasterwork, even -- and whimsical ornamentation.
It's amazing what you can do with what most would consider a material so... well, shitty...
The valley dwellers were the laughing stock of the world: the Overlards living way above their heads -- and the miserable millions living just outside the crater, peering down over its edge with fearful bemusement. They would exorcise their anguish with laughter. There is no easier way to tame fear than by belittling the source of it. So they would call the valley Fecalifornia -- or Merdor. Oh, the little gems of potty humor! They dubbed the settlements pooeblos. A single house, they snickered, was a TP. Local food specialities? Dump-lings, pot-luck and sushit! Hahaha! Yes, it was so easy laughing behind their backs -- or should I say, over their heads -- and out of their arms' reach. Oh, so brave... No one would laugh an Octane in the face. Because, you see, it wasn't the land -- the poop-smeared, God-forsaken earth -- that was deadly. It was the Octanes themselves.
A petrol-powered patriarchy.
Contrary to what the crappy comedians from around the world would have you believe, Octanes did not feed on feces. No, they lived off of oil -- in every sense. The monarchy drove the industry -- and vice versa. It wasn't merely a source of wealth -- it was the source of the kingdom's livelihood itself. Without it there would be no king. No kingdom. No industry. No nothing. Just death and chaos. In fact, for a few centuries the valley was but a barren wasteland, inhabited by stray wildlings, reduced to quadrupedalism and ruled by anarchy.
But then a miracle of sorts happened.
A tanker of epic proportions -- a true leviathan, the biggest ship there ever was, with the heaviest load onboard in recorded history -- sank while on its maiden voyage along the West Coast. Whatever the cause of this tragedy was -- faulty design, sloppy handiwork, cheap steelwork, a software glitch, a rock, a fish, a bomb even -- will forever remain a secret, burried under the megatons of crooked, rusty steel and a thick, black ocean of oil.
Tasty, nutritious oil.
A large populace of the valley lived off the fruit of ocean: fish, crabs, clams, cephalopods and such. Most of those died an instant death when the oil got out of the tanks. Some crawled out on the shore and died slowly and painfully -- as did those that tried to feed on this easy meal. The oil was poison. The oil was a trap.
To most of them, at least.
Faced with the lack of food -- and a very real prospect of starvation and total extinction -- some of the animals took to the one thing that was there: oil. They tried it -- and some died, indeed, but some lived. Some thrived. They grew bigger and bigger. But they would overeat -- as any creature who's suffered hunger would. They'd digest for months -- and eat again; more and more. Once full, they couldn't move, their bellies big and round like hills. They would just lie there -- and secrete oil by-products. They'd sweat kerosene, urinate petrol and defecate pellets of polyamide. The sweet stench of octane would then attract a multitude of smaller creatures -- who would feed off the sweet nectar. They'd lick it off and drink from him -- until he was empty again. But once they drained him dry... no, they didn't just leave him, like any wildling would do -- and go search for another host. No, they would bring him more.
And so the empire was born. A monarchy.
At first there were a bunch of oil moguls. Princes, or dukes, if you will -- each with a flock of servile maidens catering to them. But not all were equal in power. Some took less and gave back more. The quality of life differed -- or the taste of it. Thus, those who flourished under their reign made their rulers flourish -- and new subjects flocked in, adding to the prosperity. Abandoned princes withered and died -- and soon there was only one.
The Great Dispensator.
He was indeed the greatest individual to ever rule this earth -- and not just metaphorically. It took two hours to get from the northernmost to the southernmost point of his body -- traversing the highland of his belly. The workers -- all of them female -- walked the route dutifully every day: from their homes to the shore, where they filled their stomachs with oil and immersed themselves in it all the way to the tops of their heads; then to the Great Dispensator's mouth, into which they would vomit the oil from their stomachs and have him lick the thick film of petrol from their bodies with his large, warm, slimy, thorough tongue; up and down his belly down to his PP (short for Petrol Pump), which they would insert in their frontal nether regions and pump forcefully to stimulate the flow of gasoline. Once full, they could go about their day as they pleased -- with enough fuel to work at full capacity until tomorrow. A perfect system. A well-oiled mechanism. A V6 engine...
A wicked trap. A drug. A bringer of death -- slow and painful.
Gasoline was poison -- both to those that consumed it and their environment. Food most nutritious -- but deadly, in the long run. It brought about cancer. The sickess would start in the stomach or lungs -- an abnormal division of cells; multiplying while refusing to die. It'd then spread throughout the whole body, destroying it inch by inch. Gasoline was liquid death. A drug. An alchohol. Once you tried it, you couldn't stop. You could only keep drinking -- until your life was reduced to binging and hang-overs. So for those wretched creatures there existed nothing but work. Feeding the Dispensator -- more and more each day -- and getting less and less in return. There was no sunshine in the valley of death. The light couldn't penetrate the mile-high layer of smog -- so eventually, it stopped trying. Darkness and misery reigned.
"Awww, are you crying?", the bulbous woman cooed, her voice nasal with feigned concern.
I tried to ignore her -- much like I did so far -- but the only other thing to look at was Holly Wood. Her face -- her beautiful, innocent face -- filled the screen. When I looked at her, I couldn't hold back tears. They ran down my sunken cheeks in streams, salt crystalizing in the crevices of my skeletal face. It's as if all the water in my body -- what little of it was left -- accumulated in the tear ducts solely for this occasion. I let them flow -- so that they obscure the view; so that my blood-shot eyes go blind and I no longer see my beloved Holly Wood -- nor the woman laughing her heart out.
"Want a tissue?", she asked, poking me in the ribs. "I'll give you the whole box if you promise to stop weeping like a baby and jerk one off to her like a real man should!"
She laughed and laughed -- either at her own joke (she seemed to amuse herself perfectly well without me doing or saying anything) or me bursting into yet more tears (which was all I could do at this point). She hit the nail on the head -- and it pierced my dying soul. It's amazing how a careless stranger can hit you where it hurts the most without much forethought -- for not much reason other than a moment of slapstick glee. Not to make you feel worse, just to make themselves feel better.
"Don't tell me you wouldn't fuck her!", she laughed, her voice more male than female: deep, resounding and heavy with sarcasm. "You impotent or something?", she frowned and pouted, her face squirming with scornful disgust. "Limp down there? Or are you a dickless castrate, with nothing to soothe the itchy fingers?"
Punch after punch, she beat my self-esteem -- already a lifeless lump -- into a bitter pulp. How...? How can one person know so much about another? How can one be so right -- on all counts? She'd have to be a telepath. For that, she'd have to be an Overlard -- which she wasn't, as already established, by virtue of possessing all four limbs (regardless of their current functionality). Oh, how I wished to peer beneath those beady eyes and figure her out...
Sadly, my own telepathic skills must've been dependent on my once exorbitant BMI -- which steadily sank below the norm over the recent years.
"I killed her!", I cried.
I let out astonishingly raspy roar. I kept quiet through all her jeerings -- until enough was enough. I released all the air I had in my lungs with all the force I had left, hoping to shock her into silence with the truth; the very bottom line.
"BWAHAHAHAHAAAAA!"
She burst out laughing in that resounding tenor. Not the kind of reaction I was hoping for. There was a moment of shock in her facial expression: her beady eyes widened and her whorish lips arched in disbelief, the right corner pulled up a little, exposing her yellow teeth. But then her monstrous yap tensed -- and exploded with a laughter so sincere it was almost touching. It made the whole room tremble. Then, all of a sudden, it subsided just as abruptly as it went off. No forced cackling, no snickers -- quite unlike before. Not even those throaty gasps that you sometimes use to bring yourself to a halt before a hiccup sets in.
"Dude, is your name Smirnoff?", she snorted.
I was confused... Either she wasn't a telepath, after all -- or there was some irony that I was oblivious to. In any case, I left it unreplied -- for a while, at least; much longer than required to keep a conversation going.
"Uhh...", I managed to mutter. After such a long time of silence I was disaccustomed to talking, let alone snippy exchanges. Also, that one desperate cry -- my admission of guilt --cost me a lot, in many ways. So I resorted to monosyllables. "No..."
"Then the only thing your guilty of is mindboggling stupidity", she grimaced. Her voice was labored and nasal, air wheezing in her throat and nose as she spoke -- but in her elephant-like delivery she was oddly fluent. And lively! Sarcasm gave it melody.
"Huh?", I muttered. Confusion only added to my weariness.
Her head sank and rose again as she took a deep breath through those porcine nostrils.
"Well, my ignorant friend, our sweet little Holly Wood drank herself to death."
"No...", I gasped in disbelief.
"Yes!", she squeeked with glee.
"When...?"
"Hmm... I'll be damned if I remember correctly, but... a month or so after the movie premiere?"
"Which... which one?" I managed to cough out two words. With a bit of contempt, too. Didn't she know Holly Wood made thousands of movies?
"The one we're watching right now...", she half-stated, half-asked.
"That's... her first..!"
"And, as luck would have it, her last, as well!"
"What about... 'Poly-Anna'?"
"What about it?", she pouted.
"It's from... 34...15...", I gasped. Pronouncing each word still hurt like vomiting razors. "Almost... a year later..."
"Did she really?"
"I saw it... a thousand times!"
"Hm... And you never noticed how her face looked... a little rounder... Her chin -- a little smaller... Her eyes a bit larger -- and wider...", she enumerated, rolling her from side to side. "And her lips more... what's the word...? Slutty?"
"All right...", I agreed hesitantly. Not quite what I'd describe it as, but she did look different. Rounder. Sweeter. Pinkier? "But... people change... from day to day", I rebutted. I was a living proof of that.
"And then, in The May Tricks, her boobs looked bigger -- and then, in Thurman Ate Her, smaller again."
"Plastic surgery...?"
"Oh yeah? Then explain to me how exactly she managed to go from 5" as Allison Wanderlind to 5'3" in the role of Trudy Lucan-Glass and back all the way to 4'11" in Excess?"
"Camera work?", I suggested. Strings of words formed easier in my mind once warmed up -- and came out with less and less effort; dry and raspy as they were from general dehydration. I was relearning an old, under-used talent, which always lost to telepathy. Now that the latter I lost completely, those labored, raspy chunks of sound were all I got left. "A wooden crate she stood on?"
"Oh, you oblivious, obstinate fool... Still blindly believing in movie magic...", she shook her head. Her triple chin swayed to and fro. "Magic it is, maybe -- but nothing more than third-rate voodoo, my friend! It does wonders -- but not miracles! And it would take a miracle to bring someone so poisoned back to life... No amount of money could do that! Not the kind that the studio execs would shell out, anyway. There are easier -- and cheaper --workarounds."
I didn't want to hear it. Any of it. Why did I indulge her at all? Why didn't I cease this conversation in the easiest of ways: by not talking. But it was too late. The die's been cast. She ruined the movie for me already -- and worse still, left me craving for answers. Curiosity got the best of me. So after the longest pause, I asked:
"Like what?"

Yeah, it just got longer by some 2500 words yesterday -- but I'm nearing completion, so I guess I should get something around 9K, with edits and fleshing out a few sketchy parts. I am aware this might be too much for some people to get through -- but my main concern is the content. I went for a New Weird theme, and so it's all sort of dark, gross -- and xxx-rated. Is there a requirement to keep the stories more PG-13?

Hm... We're past the half mark and I'm almost 6000 words into the story, so it's kinda late to ask -- but are there any boundaries to how twisted, deranged and all out crazy the story can be? Because what I've got is probably the most insane piece of writing I've ever done I'll finish it, regardless, I'm having waaaay too much fun with it -- but I won't post it if it means crossing any lines here.

What Mandle said is true, every word of it

Also, I watched almost all of your LP of Gray. It's always so much fun watching other people play it, it gives you a really different perspective. Good work all around! It also made me remember how fun making it was, and realize I do miss it.

Have fun playing and reviewing those lovely AGS games, definitely some great picks there

I'm afraid I'm going to start and stop midway through the third paragraph again, like I did last time -- but just out of curiosity: does it have to be a completely new story, conceived of only upon reading the rules, or can I use an old idea of mine that I never got around to writing? Would be nice to finally get it down on paper/screen -- and the contest might give me a nice motivation to keep at it.

Because that's Disney's "Fantasia", Miguel

Speaking of Disney and club music, I love some of POGO's stuff, like Alice -- but my favorite is Upular.

On a completely unrelated note, today I fell in love with mock metal band Psychostick. You gotta love their parody of Drowning Pool's "Bodies".

I really like the graphics/animation, it kinda reminds me of Genndy Tartakowsky's later work. The muted color palette is nice on the eyes, too. The one thing that looks a little off is the walking animation, which looks out of sync with the walking speed: maybe it's just me, but he seems to be walking in huge steps, while the actual distance he covers seems oddly small.

If you like games about snide, condescending space aliens, you might like Visitor, by NickyNyce, or Gray (by yours truly).

Congrats, everyone! Happy and honored to see Monty nominated, too -- thanks

Looks brilliant -- and sounds brilliant, too. The music, the voice acting is top-notch, and you really found a great guy for the role of Ord. Kudos!

Seeing some of my MAGS favorites here, I thought I'd post about my little game, too. So here is...

Monty the Komodo Dragon

No, he's not an actual dragon. He's just a lizard. A very, VERY big lizard. He's also a husband to a loving wife and a father to a lovable child. As a dutiful housekeeper, he is the one providing for his family. His ever hungry and glutonous family...



So, he sets out on an exciting, dangerous quest for food. He'll visit many places and face many, many dangers -- and some downright atrocities, too. Because while it might not be immediately obvious, all in-game graphics are made using pictures of animals, animal parts, animal products -- and various excretions.

Also, Monty is voiced by yours truly. It's one thing to impersonate Matt Berry channeling Gandalf -- conveying feelings through grunts exclusively is a whole other story! So be a pal and nominate me for Best Voice-Over/Gaffer, m'kay?

And if you haven't yet

DOWNLOAD THE GAME

HERE!

I've had little experience with previous Hitman games, only played demos -- loved H2 and H3, H4 not so much -- but I liked this one. It's very over-the-top sometimes -- but that shouldn't bother you if you're willing to accept a huge angry guy with a barcode tattoo on his neck posing as a gardener It's a fun experience, very cinematic. The one thing that annoyed me were the penalty points for kills/getting noticed -- as if there's just one good way to do things. Even without the minus points, I'd still try my best to sneak my way through the game for the sake of the challenge -- but I'd like to be able to shoot everything in sight and feel like a boss, not a loser.

Speaking of stealth (and being a boss), I got Dishonored and Far Cry 3. Currently playing the latter, completely ignoring the main arc, taking over camps and hunting animals instead

The thing is, making any big project -- whatever it may be -- takes time. A LOT of time. I've done all sorts of creative stuff over the past ten years. I wrote dozens of stories, then books, ranging from some 200 to 600 pages. I drew comics (a longer story, a page every two weeks), then comic strips (three strips a week, with an ensemble cast and no real story) -- and every time I take up something new, I'm utterly terrified. It's like standing at the foot of a mountain and looking up at the top. It's going to take a lot of time and energy, and it'll take a million steps -- including stops, detours, tripping and falling down -- to get there. So naturally, the fear is paralyzing. But then comes a day I just know I need to do it, and I take the first step, then another, and then I just keep plodding on, one step at a time -- looking down at the ground in front of me, not at the mountain top far away. I try to enjoy the now: the process itself, not just reaching some distant goal. I like to spend some time polishing some bit of artwork -- regardless of how small or irrelevant -- not worrying about time or schedules. If there's a character I like writing for, I'll spent some extra time amusing myself writing some dialogue for them. Anything fun, humorous. I like learning new small things, too, like audio-editing, sound effects or voice-overs.

With all that in mind, there'll still be times when I hate what I'm doing. There will be days when I'm out of ideas for comics, or when I'm tired/cranky and I can't focus on anything, not to mention sit there for 4+ hours doing just one thing. And I do get what Armageddon means. I got so exhausted with one of my webcomics that even though I left it with an open ending, intending to get back to it at some point, it's been five years and I never have. Not going to unless I find an easier, less demanding style -- because the artwork got almost photo-realistic at some point, and while it looked pretty nifty, it took all of my free time after work and weekends. There just has to be a balance between the effort involved and the enjoyment you get out of it. There's no point in maintaining a hobby that you hate every step of the way and you feel like you've chased yourself in a corner. Most of us have our day jobs for that

Yeah, it looks perfect as an object. Which is good news, because I spent way too much time dealing away with anti-aliasing manually in "Monty the Komodo Dragon" and wasn't really looking forward to more of that in a possible sequel. So thanks everyone, this thread's been very very helpful